Captives
by Redoran
Summary: The Empire has defeated the Stormcloaks, but when an Imperial patrol crosses into Redguard territory pursuing the remnants of the Stormcloak army, it is seen as an act of war. The fate of the Empire is soon in the hands of seven prisoners of war who must put aside their differences and end the war before it tears Tamriel apart. (Hadvar Ralof and Tullius incl. Language and violence)
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: **__First off, I want to tell you that this chapter is the beginning of something potentially quite big. Something that will cover a lot of characters, a lot of locations and a lot of time. Completely uncanonical, of course, but all references to cultures and past rulers, etc, are lore-friendly. It's just speculation about what might have happened after the events of Skyrim. Kind of political, inspired partly by 'Game of Thrones' (the books, not the tv series, else this fic would have an M rating ;)). Please please PLEASE don't hesitate to leave feedback or contact me, and constructive criticism is more than welcome. I'm actually begging you for it! Oh, and the Dragonborn /isn't/ the centre of attention, for once, but I'm sure he's out there somewhere. Maybe he'll turn up later?_

_Thankyou for reading :)_

* * *

><p>None of them could have known how bad things were going to get. If they had, they would have called off the hunt there and then, and left the Stormcloaks to die of thirst in the Dragontail mountains. But Tullius's fierce pride wouldn't let go. "We must show them that raising arms against the Empire means death. Unconditionally!" he'd said, and wouldn't be persuaded otherwise.<p>

Legate Octavian Lucian Gallenus had won numerous victories against the Stormcloaks during the war, so it was he that Tullius was sending after them. A hard man, in his forties now and greying a bit, he was the one who'd led the contingent to victory against the Stormcloak repercussion in the Reach. Following the Battle of Windhelm, where the Empire killed Ulfric and his most loyal Stormcloaks, the remaining Stormcloaks had looped around to the south, with the intention of storming Solitude and killing Tullius and Jarl Elisif, but Octavian and his men intercepted them at Dragonbridge. The Stormcloaks charged over the Dragonbridge, but they were fatigued by their forced march, and were easily defeated. The rest of the army fled across the Reach and into Hammerfell. The Imperials cheered; they thought the war was over for them. But no.

Tullius was sending them after them.

Octavian entered Castle Dour the day before he was supposed to leave. _It's quieter in here these days_, he remarked. Only Tullius was in there, in his office, poring over some document that was pressed with the Imperial seal. _One last try_, he thought. _One last attempt to change the general's mind._

"General?" he said.

Tullius looked up sharply. "Oh, it's you, Legate." He relaxed. The general had been on edge even more than usual, these last few years. "What do you want?"

"Sir… This business with the Stormcloaks…"

Tullius held up a hand. "I've heard enough about this already. You know what my answer will be, so save your breath."

"Sir, what about Cyrodiil? With the Emperor murdered, shouldn't we be sending men south? To help the council secure the province?"

"What do you think the other legions are doing? Since half the damned provinces left, there are more than enough legionaries to go around. Our task is to hold Skyrim, and by the Eight, I intend to do it."

"The Dragontails are harsh, unforgiving terrain –"

"I said I've heard enough! I won't rest, not while a single Stormcloak lives. I want their gods-damned heads, Legate. They've led us on this chase for nigh-on a decade. It's time to end it."

"It's just too dangerous, sir. No doubt they'll have Forsworn guides to lead them through the mountains – you know how little love the Forsworn have for the Empire," Octavian said.

"They have even less for the Nords," Tullius argued.

"Yes, but desperate times make desperate allies, and King Madanach is unpredictable. I wouldn't be surprised if he throws his lot in with the rebels. If the Stormcloaks hide in the mountains and wait for us to chase, supported by the Forsworn, they'll ambush us and wipe us out, then head straight for Solitude."

That gave the general pause. He pored over the maps of Hammerfell and Skyrim that had been pushed together, scanning the roads and routes through the Reach and Dragontail mountains with his finger. He followed it up to Solitude, pausing slightly as he went over Dragonbridge. Eventually he shook his head. "We destroyed them at the Battle of Windhelm. Their king-"

"Jarl, sir," Legate Octavian corrected.

"Yes, Jarl, king, whatever he is, he's dead. So they'll be disheartened. We stopped their final push at the Battle of Dragonbridge after that, too. Damn it, if only we'd taken Jarl Ralof's head there and then!" He slammed his hand on the table. "I will not give up Ralof's body to the deserts of Hammerfell. I want him here as a symbol. I won't let him win, damn it."

"Sir, let it go. He's gone. The civil war is over."

"No. No. We will hunt them down."

"You forget that the Dragontails are in Hammerfell, and Hammerfell is no longer an Imperial province-"

"And you forget your place, Legate! I want them dead, and that is an order. Please, Octavian – I can't afford to have you against me on this." He sighed heavily. "It's been five years since the Battle of Windhelm, since we killed Ulfric. By the Eight, I thought the war was over then." He rolled the maps up with a sense of finality. "I want those rebels dead so I can give the rule of this backwards province back to Jarl Elisif, and retire in peace. This war has gone on too long already. End it for me."

This was the side of the general that no-one else saw. Behind that harsh exterior, ever-strong, ever-powerful, was a tired, ageing man that wanted nothing to do with the war anymore. The usual contortions of stress were carved into his face – the stress of his position that had already turned him grey before he was fifty. This job would age him ten years before he was finally granted his retirement. Eventually Octavian saluted. "It will be done, my general."

"Good... good. And Legate?"

"Yes, general?"

"Bring me his head so I can spit on it. Five years he's led me on this chase. I want my revenge."

"Yes, general." Octavian left the keep.


	2. Chapter 2

"Keep your eyes open and your weapons close, boys. If they have Forsworn with them, our scouts are as good as dead already. And watch for Redguard scouts, too – we don't want any trouble with the King of Hammerfell if we can help it."

The Imperial column snaked between the towering heights of the Dragontail Mountains, kicking up a small cloud of sand. Their Imperial leathers were coated in desert dust, and it got in men's boots, in their helmets, in the faces of the men at the back as those in front kicked it up - everywhere. Captain Hadvar marched beside Octavian along with the contingent's other captain, captain Quintus Vane, his mouth pursed shut. _A Nord's place is in the snow and tundra, not the desert heat_, he thought, and having to wear the heavy officer's armour wasn't making things any better. His face was red and dripping with sweat, and his hair clung wetly to his face even though he'd long removed his helmet.

"This is madness," he complained.

"Agreed," Quintus Vane said. Quintus was a young captain, sent up to the fourth legion from Skingrad, where he'd been an officer in the city garrison. He'd lived there his whole life, and apparently his skill for strategy and tactical planning had impressed someone high up because one day he'd received a letter and less than a week later he was taking a carriage through the pass near Bruma, straight to Helgen, where he'd been assigned to Octavian's cohort, and witnessed the dragon attack. Since then he'd forged some kind of a bond with his legate.

"Why in Oblivion has the general sent us after them? Surely he knows they've no place to go from here? Excepting Sovngarde, obviously," Quintus said. A man behind snorted laughter at that.

"Because he wants Jarl Ralof's head," Octavian said sharply. "And I plan to bring it to him."

Hadvar looked at the ground and snarled. He'd come face to face with Ralof at Helgen five years ago. Pity and urgency had made him spare him, but if he could have known what the man would become he'd have killed him there and then. Following Ulfric's death, Ralof had declared himself Jarl of Windhelm. "Don't blame yourself for it," Octavian said. "I was at Helgen, too. There was nothing you could've done."

"But there was. All I had to do was kill him. He was right there. And I let him push past me."

"Don't blame yourself for it," Octavian said.

"But it was my fault. This war would be long over if I hadn't spared him. By the Eight, if only I could go back to that day. I'd kill him without a second thought."

"Why did you spare him?" Quintus Vane asked.

"He was my neighbour. We both lived in Riverwood before the war. The village was so small that everyone knew everyone, and when I was young there weren't that many children around to play with, so he and I were close. He was one of my closest friends - we'd hunt together, be tutored together. We had our first mead together," he spat on the sand. "He wished me luck as I marched off on my first day as a member of the legion."

"I'm sorry," Quintus said.

Hadvar watched the mountain ridges, his eyes distant. "No worries, captain – the war effected everyone. I heard that even families were ripped apart by their differing views – I'm thankful that my mother and father stayed true to the legion while I was away." He squinted, peering at something far off. "Hold on... what's that?" He'd spotted something on the ridge. "Sir, up there!" he said urgently and pointed. Octavian shielded his eyes and looked. Standing on the ridge, in front of the glaring desert sun, was the dark outline of a horseman. He waved and threw something down onto the path ahead of them. The three trotted out to inspect it. It was the head of an Imperial scout.

"That bastard," Hadvar snarled. "Oblivion take you! Stormcloak traitor!"

The figure just waved again, then rode away.

"Do we give chase, sir?" Quintus asked.

"No, no, let him go." Octavian said. Hadvar gave him a hard look.

"That's the man we need. That's Ralof! The general doesn't give a damn about the rest of them. If we take him we can all go home."

"How do you know that's Ralof?" Octavian asked.

"Oh, I know it's him. Let's just ride him down."

"He's got too much of a headstart. We'd never catch him," Quintus Vane pointed out.

"I'll catch him," Hadvar said and made to gallop after him, but Octavian grabbed the reins.

"Are you mad? That's exactly what he wants you to do - have you ever seen a more obvious set-up for an ambush? Look, up there," he pointed up to the ridge on their right, where a Stormcloak bowman was just about visible behind a desert rock. He crept back behind it when he saw that he'd been spotted.

"We stay on the road until they're forced to attack us. Unless you have a deathwish," Octavian said.

"Sorry, sir," Hadvar said.

Octavian's face softened. "We'll get him, don't worry. But we'll get him with patience. We can't allow him to fight this battle on his own terms. Because if we do, we'll lose."

So they marched at a leisurely pace through the Dragontails for the rest of the day. Stormcloak scouts shadowed them on either side the whole way, moving between rocks as quick as shadows and disappearing as quickly as they appeared. "They're too swift to be Nord scouts. They must be Forsworn. Why in Oblivion would Madanach ally himself with the Stormcloaks?" Octavian muttered.

Quintus spoke. "Well, they're both exiles in their own lands now. Common purpose, maybe? Perhaps Ralof has offered them their own province if they help him regain Skyrim? The Forsworn would fight for anyone with that offer in the balance."

Octavian nodded. "That could be it. Very good, captain."

"Gods, if only Tullius was less rigid. If he would only grant the Forsworn their demands, they could've been our eyes, not theirs. What difference does it make to him if Markarth is ruled by Forsworn or Nord? They'd both be a part of the Empire," Quintus said.

"Because if the Forsworn gained control of the Reach, thousands of Nords would be put to the sword. Children and all. I like to think Tullius has more honour than that, though sometimes it's hard to see it," Octavian replied.

"Bit of history there?" the captain from Cyrodiil asked.

"You could say that," Octavian replied. "He's a hard man. Hard and unyielding. And as unmoving as High Hrothgar when he's made up his mind about something."

"Is that why we're out here?" Quintus asked.

"Yes. Tullius wants to see Ralof dead, so we must do it."

"The old man is crazy."

"The old man is desperate," Octavian said.

"Why would he send Hadvar on such a mission, though? Surely he knows how much they despise each other?"

"Actually, I requested Hadvar's presence personally. He may be a little impulsive, but he's one of the best captains the fourth legion's got – and gods know we need every advantage we can get here."

Along their route they found the heads of at least twelve more Imperial scouts, and each time they saw Ralof on the ridges, just out of bow range. And each time Octavian's cohort gritted its teeth, bit its tongue and kept moving. It wasn't long before the sun began to set; they had made it at least two miles into the mountains, a good distance for a day's worth of marching, and Octavian didn't want to tire his men so he shouted for the halt. "That's quite enough for today, boys. We need to be fighting fit tomorrow. We'll set up camp in this clearing," he ordered, riding his horse down the column and repeating the order so everyone knew. Relieved groans followed him as he rode, and men unfurled tent materials from their packs.

The men of the cohort were well trained and before it was fully dark, the clearing was filled with rows of square leather tents, each bearing the red dragon of Cyrodiil. The officer's tents were in the centre, red and twice the average size. They'd been pegged in the middle of the camp, surrounded by sentry fires, to keep the officers safe from possible Forsworn assassins creeping in under cover of darkness. In the legate's tent, gold and bigger than all the rest, Octavian and his two captains shared supper. They could hear the typical sounds of an Empire camp as it settled down outside: sounds of men beating the sand off their leathers, sharpening and testing swords, and chattering quietly around their campfires as they shared drink and stories.

Octavian broke apart a piece of bread.

"What's the plan for tomorrow then, Legate?" Quintus asked as he sipped some mead.

"We keep marching. There is a plateau not far from here, roughly half a mile wide in all. Should take us half the day to get there." He took a bite. "No doubt the Forsworn scouts will know about it, too. If we can meet the Stormcloaks on that plateau, we'll slaughter them. But, unless Ralof is a _much _worse tactician than I think he is, he won't let us get that far."

"No, he won't," Hadvar confirmed.

"So we'll march in full war equipment tomorrow. We'll tell the men to be ready for action. They'll try to ambush us on our way there, but we'll be ready for them." He took a bite. "I admit, it's far from foolproof, but Tullius has hardly left me much of a choice. It's the best chance we're going to get at chasing down the Stormcloaks, short of driving them into the desert."

"That sounds good enough for me," Quintus concurred.

"Good. In the morning, take your contingent and march on the left flank. Hadvar will command the right, and I'll take the centre."

There was silence for a while, until Hadvar spoke up. "Ralof won't fall for it. He's more intelligent than that, sir."

Octavian looked at him, as if he was surprised by the questioning of his command, but he chuckled. "Well, if you have a better plan, captain, I'd be happy to hear it."

"I don't. All I'm saying is that we shouldn't discard him so easily. There's a reason he's managed to survive this long. And with Madanach at his back? The man who broke out of Cidhna Mine and fought his way clear of Markarth with but a handful of prisoners? I'd wager they have something in mind for us. They're too experienced to enter the Dragontails unless they knew they wouldn't have to endure them for long."

Octavian put down his bread. His brow was furrowed. "This is true." He was silent for a while. Suddenly, he looked up at Hadvar with a strange expression on his face. "Hadvar, what would you do if you were leading the Stormcloak army?"

"Sir?"

"How would you fight an Imperial column?"

"I know what I'd do sir..." Quintus said, now looking troubled. "I'd wait for them to make camp for the night…"

The men were on their feet quickly as instant realisation grabbed them. "Exactly," Octavian said.

Hadvar grimaced. "That means..."

"Go. Wake the troops. Quickly," Octavian told Hadvar. He left quickly, shouting commands. Quintus retrieved Octavian's officer armour and helped him into it. His Legate looked even more fearsome in his steel-plated legion armour, helmet closed and face hidden. The blood red plume on its top stood out starkly from the steel-grey, and would identify him as the army's commander on the field of battle. Octavian nodded briskly and headed outside. Quintus followed him.

It wasn't long before the Legion army was fully suited up and ready for battle. And not a moment too soon.


	3. Chapter 3

"I see them!" A legionary near Quintus shouted. Quintus looked up the mountainside and his stomach turned.

The Stormcloaks were surging down the slope, kicking up dust. Only their outlines were visible, a great rippling mass of shadow tumbling towards them like an avalanche. The Stormcloaks were a screaming horde. Their archers fired off a few shots, and they thudded into Imperial shields and ripped through the leather tents. The shots were devastating, but thankfully their men were soon too close to the Imperial lines to risk firing, so the archers drew vicious iron shortswords and joined the back of the charge. The Empire archers loosed a few rounds into the huge Nords, and some fell, but a frightening number just gritted their teeth and kept coming. The Nords were howling the name of the fallen king, and their stolen god, Talos, and in the shimmering haze of the night, with their horned helms and heavy axes, they looked like Daedra. Quintus steeled his heart. "_Ulfric! Ulfric! Ulfric_!" the Stormcloaks shouted. Quintus heard sparse shouts of "_For Madanach_!" and "_For the Reach_!", and also other strange battlecries that shouldn't have been there, shouts uttered in the dry, grizzly accents of Argonians and Khajiit, and some shouted for some distant orc-hold, or "_For Orsinium!_" It should have troubled Quintus, but he was too focused on the battle to take much notice. The only unified shout was of "_death to the Empire!", _and it ricocheted off the sandy mountains around them, echoing across Hammerfell and burrowing into the hearts of the Imperial legionaries. That shout scared Quintus more than anything. _We shouldn't even be fighting them,_ he thought. _They are blood of Atmora as much as we are. We should be united, building our strength to fight the Thalmor. _That was why Quintus hated Ulfric so much: He had been too hasty. He wanted vengeance against the Thalmor here and now, but everyone knew it simply wasn't possible. What the Empire needed to do was unite itself and build its strength, and Ulfric had doomed them all. Because of Ulfric, two kingdoms of men weakened themselves while the Aldmeri Dominion grew stronger. The Aldmeri Dominion were the only true victors of the Civil War.

The Stormcloaks were close now, so the archers fell back between the legionaries, away from the oncoming melee. Quintus fought down the fear in his gut. He had an example to set.

"Lock shields!" he shouted, and the Imperials brought their shields together, ready to meet Nord axes with Imperial blades.

Quintus turned his fear into strength. _Kill or be killed,_ he thought. _I've done this a hundred times before in the snows of Skyrim. The desert is no different._ He countered the charge of the first Nord to reach him by hitting him back with his shield. He stabbed his shortsword under the rim, up through his thin fur armour and deep into his belly. His fur turned red as blood and guts were suddenly released. The rebel doubled over and Quintus thrust the blade through the back of his neck. _A clean death,_ Quintus thought. _They deserve that much. It's not their fault they fell for Ulfric's honeyed words._

A second man came at him, an Imperial, which saddened his heart. He locked shields with him, and the rebel snarled into his face and Quintus snarled back, gripped by the adrenaline of battle. _Kill or be killed, _he thought, and thrust his blade up under the shield again, under the ribs and into the rebel's heart. That was what he got for betraying his homeland.

Legate Octavian was on the front line too, blood-red helmet plume visible all down the battleline, inspiring the men to fight harder. His shortsword rose and stabbed down over and over, splattering rebel blood over his ornate officer armour. A particularly vicious Nord charged forward, naked above the waist, with braids in his hair and tattoos from head to foot. He howled "_Talos!"_ The Legate rammed the rim of his shield into the rebel's gut, doubling him over, then brought his sword around for the final blow... but the Nord dodged away, quick as a snow leopard, and wheeled around with his axe. It cut deep into the Legate's arm with a bone-snapping _crunch_ and he screamed. The Nord tried to pull back, to strike again and finish him, but the axe was wedged. He spat and cursed. Thinking quickly, Octavian drove his helmet into the Nord's face. His nose _crunched_ and he doubled back, abandoning his axe, and the Legate, cold and professional, stabbed his sword through the rebel's chest, then swung it low to cleave his legs out from under him; he fell like a piece of timber. Legionaries hurried to Octavian and they dragged him back from the front line – soldiers behind quickly came forward and reformed the shieldwall, locking the Nords out behind a fortress of flesh and wooden shields. A Legate's plume wouldn't be their trophy today.

Quintus fought harder when he saw his Legate go down, cutting and stabbing his way through his foe, but the Stormcloaks had also seen the legate go down and were now howling their victory. They crashed against the Imperial line in their blue furs like the Sea of Ghosts against the northern cliffs. Quintus grimaced as he cleaved through the rebels. Then, faster than he could blink, he went down.

Boots crunched in sand around his head and pain shot up his leg. _What happened?_ He covered his head with his arms as the feet of Stormcloak soldiers stamped and kicked. When he dared open his eyes he saw that the Empire's lines were being pushed back. He heard the wooping howls of Reachmen and rebels alike, alongside beastmen and landless warriors and heretics. All screaming their gods, and their kings, and their vengeance. _Divines help me_. He tried lying as still as he could. Maybe they would think he was dead and leave him alone.

No. A rugged hand gripped his collar and dragged him to his feet. A towering Nord stood before him, his beard long, and tied in warrior braids like his wild hair. He sniggered.

"Look, got us an officer!"

Somehow in the maelstrom of battle Quintus had lost his shield so he braced his pitiful shortsword tight and took a defensive stance. "Oooh, he wants to fight, look!" The men laughed.

The large Nord swung his axe suddenly, and it clipped Quintus's chin. Quintus blinked tears of pain from his eyes as they laughed again. The Stormcloak lashed out, grinning, but this time Quintus spun away from it. The Nord swung his left fist at him, but Quintus stumbled backwards, away.

"Hold still, damn you!"

The rebel swung his axe again, and this time Quintus hit it away with the back of his metal gauntlet and stabbed forward. The Nord was too slow and the blow nicked the side of his ribs. He yowled like a beast.

"Oh, you're dead now, Empire-man."

He asked for a torch to be brought to him. A meek Forsworn man gave it him with a devilish smile. Quintus noticed they all shared it.

"No, no!" Quintus shouted and tried to hack his way free but they pressed in closer.

The Forsworn man smiled wider at his reaction. "This is how we Forsworn execute people, Imperial."

They held him down as they doused him in oil. Quintus was screaming. They howled with laughter, like wolves.

"Goodbye, Imperial."

A horseman knocked the Nord and the Reachman down.

"Stop! Enough! In the name of Lord Cirroc of the City of Dragonstar! Enough!"


	4. Chapter 4

"Stop! Enough! In the name of Lord Cirroc of the City of Dragonstar! Enough!"

Riders drew up before them, dark skinned Redguards wearing light flowing crimson robes and crimson scarves pulled up over their faces that left only their eyes visible. The only armour they wore was a light quilted cotton jacket, emblazoned on the front with the gold dragon of Dragonstar. The dragon had a crown above its head, showing the city's allegiance in the ever-ongoing political war in Hammerfell between the conservative Crowns and progressive Forebears. The riders eyed both sides with blatant, fierce hate.

Both armies stopped fighting as Redguard horsemen surrounded them. Their leader, a man on a white stallion and wearing golden desert robes embroidered with patterns of swirling sandstorms and rolling dunes was the one who had shouted. He spoke now.

"Who are the commanders here? Come forward. Now!"

Quintus stepped forward. Hadvar emerged from the rabble with a small handful of Imperial legionaries, covered head to foot in blood and nursing wounds. Octavian was brought forward by two men, one under each arm; since Quintus had last seen him, he'd sustained an injury to his calf too. The battle had really been going against them, he realised; they were lucky the men of Hammerfell intervened when they did.

From the other side of the clearing the Redguards had made Ralof came forward, wiping blood from his mouth. Hadvar snarled at him and he spat back.

"Where is Madanach?" Octavian asked him.

"Caught an Imperial blade in the throat," he growled. "His son is still in the Reach." He turned to the Redguard. "I hope you have a good reason for ruining my victory, Redguard," he said.

The Redguard ignored him. "Do you know whose lands you now stand on, lords?" The threatening undertone was as sharp as the scimitar at his belt. He didn't wait for a reply. "These are the lands of the Lord of Dragonstar."

"What is your point?" Octavian asked sharply.

"The Lord of Dragonstar kills trespassers, Imperial."

"Tresspassers? These are the enemies of the Empire, sir, and we are at war. We have a right to pursue them in the name of the Emperor. Besides, we've done your lord a favour today; if we hadn't been here, these rebels would be loose in his lands right now," Octavian said.

The Redguard waved his hand dismissively. "The Lord of Dragonstar cares nothing for your war. What he sees here is two Empire armies on Redguard land."

Ralof and Hadvar bristled at the same time.

"You dare call the sons of Skyrim men of the Empire!" Ralof snarled.

"You dare call these savages men of the Empire!" Hadvar snapped.

They shared a hateful look.

"Like I said, two Empire armies on Redguard land, without my lord's permission," the Redguard continued unabated. "He doesn't like that. He sees that as a threat from your Emperor-"

"He's not my Emperor," Ralof said, staring at the horseman.

"And not many men threaten a Crown and live to tell of it," the Redguard finished.

Octavian spoke up: "Are you mad? This has nothing to do with you or your people. We are pursuing the interests of our Emperor. We have no quarrel with your lord."

The Redguard circled Octavian on his horse. His scimitar jangled threateningly in its sheath.

"So, you admit that it was within the interests of your Emperor that you entered Hammerfell?"

The tension was mounting, and now everyone stared at the leaders of the Atmoran armies, waiting to see what would be said next. Quintus's hand was tight around his shortsword's handle, ready to meet any trouble with cold steel. He saw sweat dripping down the Legate's face.

"You twist the Imperial's words, Redguard," Ralof eventually said. Hadvar stared at him. Ralof shrugged. "As much as I hate you Imperials, it seems we would have more to gain here standing together than apart."

There was silence for a long, aching second.

"Agreed," Quintus Vane eventually said. Octavian nodded curtly. The Redguard rounded on them, his riders coming forward with him.

"Oh, so it _is_ a single, united Empire army that has encroached on my lord's lands?"

The others protested but the Redguard held up a hand. "This is a very significant challenge indeed. How would it look if my lord let such an insult slide?"

An arrow fired from the Imperial ranks hit the Redguard officer in the neck and he fell from his horse.


	5. Chapter 5

"Who released that arrow? Who released that gods-damned arrow?" Octavian was shouting. Ralof was brandishing a vicious war-axe and snarling, and Hadvar was rallying his small group of blood-soaked legionaries, this time forming a line _beside_ the Stormcloak rebels.

"Look out legate!" Quintus shouted and darted forward to tackle Octavian out of the way, but he was too late.

The legate was still looking at his ranks, trying to find the firer of the arrow, and a Redguard horseman, quick as an Alik'r scorpion, swept his scimitar down in a wide arc and… Quintus lost sight of him as legionaries roared and chaos engulfed the three armies.

With a rising shout of anger, the Redguard cavalry ploughed into the unstructured mass, some with scimitars swinging, some skewering men on thin spears.

Quintus had lost sight of the others, so fought to regain control of his own men. He grabbed a man; a legionary he recognised as Vellius. "Where in Oblivion are you going? Stand and fight! Form rank!"

Vellius opened his mouth to respond but the words never came; the tip of a spear burst through Vellius's chest, fast reddening his leather uniform and spilling blood on the sand. The rider who had stabbed him reared up on his horse, and Quintus raised his shield instinctively. _The desert isn't like Skyrim at all,_ he decided. _A hundred battles against the Stormcloaks didn't prepare me for this._ He felt his blade sink into flesh and warm, slick blood pour over his hand, then the huge weight of the horse came down on him.

His sword was wedged in the dead horse so he abandoned it and crawled away. The sand was red and saturated with blood, so much that it stuck to his hands. The Redguard rider's legs were trapped beneath his mount, broken judging by the agony on his face. He grabbed Quintus's boot.

"Help me," he pleaded. Quintus lashed out with his foot and caught him square in the nose, crushing it. He screamed in pain, then wept as Quintus wrenched the spear from his hands. He thrust it down through the man's neck: he gurgled and fell still. Quintus straightened up and looked around himself. The cavalry were running men down all around him, Stormcloak and rebel alike. If the battle before had been tough, this was a massacre. He saw perhaps a dozen Redguard riders go down, if that, and the combined Atmoran armies were being quickly wiped out, broken into small pockets and then destroyed individually.

Quintus remembered something then, something from his days as a recruit, back in Castle Skingrad.

They were some of the hardest days of his life. "A spear is a very effective weapon against cavalry," The guard captain of the Skingrad garrison had said, a hard old man whose name was Ellik. "So you must learn how to form a schiltron, a ring of spearmen."

Sometimes Ellik would even charge horses at the recruits, who would have to demonstrate the proper formation, using a wooden staff as a weapon instead of a spear. If a man didn't get it right, the Imperial Cavalry were given leave to ride over the man. One of the recruits had died that way, but the old captain had had no regrets. "Now maybe that'll make the rest of you try harder!" he had shouted. Quintus had feared those cavalry more than anything in the world, but now he found himself wishing that they were there with them on the battlefield, riding their white mounts and donning shining golden armour. But Octavian's cohort had been outfitted for mountain warfare, so they were all on foot, all armed with a shield and a pitiful shortsword. Except him.

"Listen to me! Listen to me! Take their spears! Form schiltron! Do you know how to do that? On me!"

Some men looked at him with blank faces, some even with outright hate. "You're not a legate," they snarled, or "I'll take no orders from an Imperial officer." A small number followed his orders and took up spears. They formed a tight ring of spearmen on him. The effect was instantaneous.

The cavalry hit their ring and stopped dead as steel tips drove feet deep into the rider's mounts. Some came flying over the top, landing in the circle to be swiftly finished by those in the middle. Most just fell down and were crushed beneath their mounts. Men - Imperial, Forsworn, and Nord alike - cheered defiantly. As more men noticed what they were doing they began to fight their way towards the ring. Many were ridden down as they tried, but a few dozen made it, and most of them had found themselves a spear. Quintus watched the last pocket of men fighting their way towards them, a scrambled mix of Forsworn, Imperial and Stormcloak. At the centre, Hadvar and Ralof fought back to back, each shouting separate commands and trying to out-do the other, but Quintus smiled despite himself. In the centre he could see Octavian, unconscious, by the looks of things, but otherwise unharmed.

"There, men! Let's save the legate!" Quintus shouted.

"For the Jarl!" A few shouted back defiantly, but his schiltron moved under his command anyway, and they pushed the remaining horsemen away from the exhausted soldiers.

"Good call, Quin - the spears," Hadvar said. Quintus smiled grimly.

"Well, someone had to remember the lesson that recruit dead for," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

The Redguard cavalry had formed a line a couple dozen feet from them, and now watched them warily. Some men clattered their shields and weapons, jeering, but Quintus silenced them. He noticed that two of the Redguards were having a heated argument, and he remembered that they had lost their commander too. Eventually one spurred his horse toward them, flanked by two other riders.

"I am Atah, high warrior of Dragonstar and commander of my men following the death of Ajacks. I would like to talk." He and his men had left their scimitars behind, presumably to show they meant no harm. "Who is leader amongst you?"

"He is," Ralof said, pointing at Quintus. Hadvar nodded.

"We all are. Come forward with me," he told them as he stepped out of the line and removed his helmet. A pair of legionaries brought Octavian forward too, though he was still unconscious. The Redguard dropped his face-scarf and the two men looked at each other in the light of the moon.

"Hail, lords. Your men have fought well. We have a proposition for you."

"What is it?" Quintus asked.

"You three will come with us, to be publicly executed in Dragonstar at Lord Cirroc of Dragonstar's request, and your men can go free. Or," he cast his eyes over the men behind them. "You can go free, but your men will die."

Quintus felt the warm night wind and noticed the agonising burn in his muscles for the first time then. The wind hit the sweat on his scalp and made him shiver. Looking around at his men, he realised how few he really had – probably half a hundred in all. He wondered if they felt it too. He realised that that was how it felt to be alive, and decided he couldn't take that away from so many, even if it meant losing it himself. The faces of his men watched him expectantly, not knowing if they were going to live or die. They held their spears braced, most of them dripping with blood. Probably the blood of their old friends, he realised with an odd feeling in his stomach. Spears that he had ordered them to take. If he had bought them their lives, did that mean he could sell them too?

He looked over the Redguard horsemen, with their spears and scimitars. They would have no chance if they charged, Quintus thought, but dismounted... His men had abandoned their shortswords and shields, and wouldn't reach them in time if the Redguards attacked. Everyone knew that Redguards were the best warriors in Tamriel. When he looked over the hard-faced riders, he had no doubt they'd be able to make good on their threats. _Well then,_ Quintus decided, _I have no choice._

"Time to decide, Imperial," Atah said.

"Let my men go. I'll come with you," Quintus said.

Hadvar stepped forward. "I will, too." Quintus gave him a hard stare, but Ralof stepped forward too, and Quintus knew there would be no arguing them out of it.

The Redguard looked quite shocked. "An honourable choice, lords."

"Yeah, yeah," Ralof said, "Just bind our wrists."

They held out their hands for their iron shackles, and were led back to Dragonstar as the light of dawn appeared on the horizon. Quintus stared out across the Alik'r. The gold-domed towers and sandstone walls of Dragonstar clung to the edge of the mountains, looking very small. Endless dunes stretched out beyond, empty and forbidding. In the very distance, a caravan of traders were three tiny black dots barely moving at all, framed by the rising sun. The ancient ruins of a Dwemer city clawed with hands of jagged metal to keep from being buried beneath the sand. He could almost sense the souls of the Imperials who had died in the March of Thirst when he was just a child. Their skeletal remains had been buried forever beneath the shifting sand, exactly where they had fallen all those years ago, entombed in their youth forever. A cheap mummification, Quintus mused.

He looked back over his shoulder, and saw the small column of Stormcloaks, Forsworn and Imperials disappearing into the mountains. _I united them, _he thought, _something not even Tullius or Ulfric could do._ He knew then he had made the right choice.

The Redguards had taken their own prisoners too, as was their right, according to Atah. Many of the Redguard warriors were Forebears, he told him, and the Forebears liked to take worthy foes captive and bring them back from the battlefield, where they would then force them to fight in the Redguard armies or die. The Forebears were the descendants of the ancient Yokudan Ra Gada warriors, Atah told him, and the tradition extended back centuries.

"Will it be a quick death?" Quintus asked. Atah looked back at him with a strange expression.

"Oh, Imperial, I hope that when you die, it is quick, but it will be many years from now."

Quintus sat up in his saddle. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Atah barked a laugh in his thick, deep Redguard voice. "Luckily for you I'm a Forebear."

"But you said I was to be executed," Quintus said.

"You are too great a warrior to be wasted in such a way. And by agreeing to my proposal you showed me that you care more about the lives of the men you lead than your own. No, you are a good officer. You will be taken to Sentinel. You will be held at the king's mercy, you will train his men for him. We saw how you responded to our charge and rallied your men. It was impressive," he said grudgingly, and spat. "Shaming, but impressive, and the king will want you."

"What if I refuse?" Quintus asked.

"You will find that torture here in Hammerfell is a lot harsher than in your soft Empire prisons." Atah smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

"Let me see some proof of identity," The guard said with a sneer. He was toying with him, a young wizard wearing a new robe, hood up, with a satchel slung over his shoulder brimming with scrolls and tomes, both old and new. He must have looked the very picture of a student wizard, and everyone knew how Redguards felt about wizards. He'd worn it so that his mentor would think he was serious about learning the magical arts, but he regretted wearing it now. _I'm such a fool, _he thought.

He fumbled for the papers his father had given him – proof that he was the son of Francois Lelles, the richest merchant in the West District. Everybody knew him – his house was the largest on the West side, and that was saying something, but the guard looked at the paper with feigned ignorance.

"I don't know any Francois Lelles," he said.

"Of course you do. Everyone knows Francois Lelles."

The guard shrugged. "Never heard of him. Sorry. Be on your way now."

The student gritted his teeth. "I can't be on my way, you're _in_ it."

The guard smiled – smugly, not apologetically. "Sorry," he said again.

"You're not sorry," Guilbert Lelles accused.

"That's right, I'm not."

"Look, I know you know my father, and I have important business. Let me through."

The guard snorted. "Important business? In the Poor District? Why would a rich boy like _you_ have business with us common rabble?"

Up until White-Cold Concordat was signed and Hammerfell left the Empire – roughly quarter of a century ago – Dragonstar had been split into East and West, between the rightful Redguard rulers, who ruled the west, and the Nords, who had invaded and occupied the east side. Though the Nords had been driven out when Hammerfell became independent, the centuries of Nord rule had certainly left their mark; while the West Side had been maintained, kept clean, healthy, and well-built, the East Side was neglected, disease-ridden, and rife with squatters and criminals. _The barbaric Nords had a way of doing that to places_, Guilbert thought, _you just had to visit the Gray Quarter in Windhelm to see that, or the stinking, foetid streets of Riften._

When the Redguards restored order, the Nord side became the Poor District. Not officially – its official name was the East Side - but everyone knew it was that way and that was what everyone called it. Guilbert doubted half of these men even knew why that was. They were most likely raised in the Poor District, and there weren't exactly many centres of education on that side of the city. Excepting the place that he was trying to get to, ironically.

The Redguard snarled. "Look, I've had enough of you, posh boy. Now get out of here before I ruin that fancy robe of yours."

"But I need to get through!"

He eyes him dangerously. "Not another word. Off with you."

"I-"

He shoved Guilbert and he fell onto the cobbled street. His scrolls and books fell across the street. Feet, hooves and cartwheels crushed them, and one or two rolled into the drains as Guilbert snatched fruitlessly after them.

"You idiots!" he screamed. "You're trampling my scrolls! Do you have any idea how much they cost, you filthy beggars?" They just laughed at him.

The guard sneered. "Hey, you're the son of the great Francois Lelles, buy yourself some new ones."

Guilbert pointed at him furiously. "You do know him! I'll have you reported to the guard captain! I'll have your rank stripped from you and you'll be left to starve, so help me!"

That got the guard's attention. The wrong kind of attention. "You're very used to getting your own way aren't you, posh boy? Well now you've pushed it too far. You won't be reporting me to anyone." He advanced on Guilbert, sword drawn.

Guilbert scrambled to his feet. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean what I was saying."

People were laughing hard now and Guilbert had turned the colour of nightshade.

The guard swept the great blade in a wide arc, but Guilbert somehow managed to avoid the blade, but he lost his balance and fell again. His robe ripped, but he didn't care anymore.

"C'mere!" the guard shouted. Guilbert ran past the guard and into the poor side.

Guilbert ran for what seemed like hours through the backalleys of the East District. More than once, he had to grope in his bag for a stamina potion to keep him going, and still the guard refused to give up the chase. _He must really want that job, _Guilbert thought.

"Just... stop running... boy. Get here. Please." But there was no way Guilbert would dare to stop, even for a moment. _The rabble are desperate and get very violent to protect themselves, _he thought. He knew how savage it was, living on the other side of Dragonstar. But, at the same time, it wasn't his problem.

Guilbert turned left at the end of the alley, then right. The walls either side seemed to grow higher with every turn and more of the sun was blocked out. The alleys were actually moist here in the shade, and stank of decay and mould, unfamiliar to Guilbert's nostrils.

Guilbert reached inside his pack for another potion but couldn't find one. He groped around the bottom of the bag.

No. No bottle. _Damn_.

The guard was getting closer. Then his hands closed on something cold and fleshy. He smiled as he pulled it out... A Redwort Flower. He remembered them from his lessons with Master Flaendere. All those months of boring botany lessons in the wizard's underground mage's college had paid off after all, he thought as he shoved it in his mouth.

Guilbert disappeared. The guard turned the corner.

He looked directly at where Guilbert was standing. For a moment his heart was in his throat and he panicked. Had the magic not worked? Was he still visible?

Then the guard's eyes passed over him, and he let himself breathe again. The guard looked down the alley the other way, then behind himself. He shouted in anger and hit the wall with his scimitar. "Godsdamned _wizards!_ Oblivion take you!"

Guilbert felt a little sorry for him then, as he stalked back down the alley and out of view. _But, like I said, it's not my problem,_ he thought.

He was about to start heading back out of the labyrinth of backstreets, but he heard a shout: "I'll rip your heart out, Dunmer bastard!" Guilbert froze.

He heard the hurried footsteps of many people running, and then several figures burst into the alley: A dark elf, robed in faded, tattered purple and clutching a dagger. That was what drew Guilbert's eye: the blade. It's hilt was carved from Dunmer bonemold, and encrusted with precious ashland jewels, made even more precious since the destruction of Vvardenfell as they were now extremely rare and hard to find. The blade itself was a shimmering silver that seemed to twist and flicker as if it were molten hot, as if it were still freshly pulled from the forge. _Dunmeri magic,_ Guilbert thought.

Five Argonians followed him, armoured in ragged leather, cottons and travel robes. Their leader stepped forward and the dark elf held his blade up threateningly. "Take one more step, Scaletail, and I'll take out that last good eye of yours."

Scaletail's spines fluttered and flexed slowly. He cackled. "Good luck, Vilyn. Five of us against one of you?"

Vilyn smiled with his thin grey lips. "Come now. We've spent all these years trying to kill each other. Let's end it with a fair fight, shall we? One on one. You versus me. No magic, I promise." He grinned, though it was more like a grimace.

"This _is_ a fair fight, exile."

Vilyn shrugged concedingly, keeping his dark red eyes on the Argonian. "True. So how will you end it? Hold me down while they kick me to death? Or just slice my throat and be done with it? I don't mind as long as you keep your hands off my dagger."

Scaletail snapped his teeth. "Oh, I'll be using your dagger. I'll use it to rip your throat open like you did to my brother."

Vilyn smiled and the Argonian had him pinned to the wall in the blink of an eye, a scaly hand crushing his neck. "Just be careful with it then..." he spluttered. "It's very sharp. The way it sliced his throat... it was so easy. Like he didn't have scales at all," Vilyn said mockingly.

Scaletail drove his fist hard into his stomach.

"I pried off his scales, you know. You have to find a way to make a living. I sold them as slaughterfish scales... you could hardly tell the difference."

"I'm going to watch you die, exile!" The other Argonians crowded around, holding him still.

"Tell me boys, how much is he paying you to do this? I'll double it," Vilyn said.

Scaletail punched him again. "I'm not paying them anyhing. They volunteered."

"Volunteered?"

"Yes. You'd be surprised how eagerly volunteers appear when you tell people you're going to kill Vilyn Telvanni."

Guilbert almost gasped out loud. _Telvanni?_ He had heard that the Telvanni were wiped out over a century ago, by the vengeful Argonian slave army after the Red Year. Dragonstar was the last place he expected to find someone with that name. That meant he was an actual, pureblood wizard.

"I see. Ok, go for it, then. Give me a clean death."

"Gladly."

The Argonian clicked his teeth again, and snatched at Vilyn's blade. He screamed.

Vilyn was released and dropped to his knees, coughing.

"You sneaky bastard!" The Argonian wept, holding his melted hand. _The blade was enchanted,_ Guilbert thought, but he had never seen an enchantment quite like that.

"Well you did ask for my knife," Vilyn said as he picked up his dagger and rose to his feet. The other Argonians came forward.

Guilbert was blinded by a sudden flash of light and the roar of fire. When he looked back, the Argonians were nothing but ash. Vilyn whispered something to his knife, kissed it and put it back in it's sheath. _Odd,_ Guilbert thought.

Except he must have said it out loud instead, because Vilyn's eyes locked straight on him then. Fiery red and shiny they were, with a glint behind them that Guilbert hadn't seen in a dark elf before. Insanity, maybe? Grief? He didn't know.

Vilyn raised his hand and soft, purple shoots of light appeared. Guilbert realised with dread that it was a dispel spell.

Vilyn blinked when he saw him with an expression similar to surprise.

"Well, would you look at that. A Breton."

"Don't hurt me..." Guilbert said.

Vilyn's mouth twitched into a smile and he was about to respond, but he tensed up as the sharp point of an arrow was pressed into his back.

"One move and you're dead." a gruff voice said. Behind Vilyn stood a city guard with his bow taut. He spat. "Wizards."

Others filtered in behind him, and one by one their expressions changed as they noticed the piles of ash. One retched, and another glared at Guilbert.

"They... they burnt them..." one said.

"Wait – no! It wasn't me! It was him!" Guilbert shouted.

The guard was blind to it. "You'll be coming with us," he said. "Both of you."

Vilyn shrugged. "Whatever you say," he said mildly, as they led them out of the backstreets.

"It wasn't me! I wasn't involved!" Guilbert shouted all the way to the Lord's castle, kicking and shouting.

"That was magic in that alley, and you're wearing robes! You magical types look down on us commoners, but we aren't that stupid. I know a wizard when I see one."

"Yes, but did it occur to you that maybe not all wizards are evil, fireball-slinging savages?"

"Watch your tongue Breton," Vilyn said. "You'll only make this worse for yourself."

"Shut up, Telvanni. You dragged me into this mess."

Vilyn looked vaguely surprised by the fierceness of Guilbert's retort, but it was gone again almost instantly, hidden behind that brooding Dunmer mask."Yes, I did, and I'll get you out of it. Now just shut up and let them bind you."

"Bind me-?"

A guard came forward with a heavy looking metal neckpiece. Vilyn dipped his head for it obediently and they clamped it on.

"What is this?" Guilbert demanded.

"A silencing collar. Stops you using magic," Vilyn said. "Very crafty, these Redguards. Their dislike of magic runs so deep that they will even resort to its use to prevent it. Funny, really."

"Nothing about this is funny," Guilbert said. He thought about running there and then, but the look in Vilyn's eyes, and the dozens of guard surrounding him, told him not to. He bowed his head reluctantly. "Fine."


	7. Chapter 7

Lord Cirroc looked the very picture of nobility in his cardinal red doublet, emblazoned on the chest with the golden dragon of Dragonstar. A thin, silken cloak of gold thread was fastened at his collar by a brooch of moonstone, which pooled around his feet on the marble tiles as he stood, waiting.

A pair of soldiers dragged Legate Octavian into the room, and stopped before Lord Cirroc. One of them kicked Octavian in his wounded calf, making him scream out and drop to his knees. "You will kneel before his Lordship, Empire lapdog."

"If you say so," Octavian said through gritted teeth.

"Welcome to Dragonstar, Legate Octavian," Cirroc said. He was a tall man, with jet black hair that he slicked back from his face in a way that was reminiscent of the elven style, though he was not an elf. He looked like he was of Imperial lineage, though with some it was harder to say than others. He could have been of mixed blood.

"Where's Quintus? And Hadvar? Where are my men?"

"Don't worry, legate! They're perfectly safe. In fact, I'd say that Quintus Vane is more than safe."

"What are you getting at?"

He smiled, a smile stretched across a thin face with parchment skin. "He's going to Sentinel, to join the king's guard. He'll be living a life of luxury the likes of which you'll never know."

Octavian wanted to lunge for him, grab his collar and shout in his face, but he recognised that that would not be a wise move. "What have you done with him?"

Cirroc seemed to read his previous thoughts, because he smiled smugly and leaned in close, within an inch of Octavian's face, almost daring him to do it. "He's betrayed you, legate."

Octavian resisted the urge to spit in his face. "Stop trying to play mind games with me. I know my men better than you do. Now why have you brought me here? I was getting quite cosy in my cell."

"Oh I wouldn't get too cosy if I were you. See, I, as I'm sure my late general Ajacks told you before he was unceremoniously removed from his position by one of your archers, am not very happy with the actions of your general Tullius. Invading Hammerfell like this! Creeping in through the shepherd's roads of the Dragontails, hoping to launch a surprise attack on my city just as the barbaric Nords did all those years ago. For all of his preachings of honour and fairness, your general had been particularly hard-handed and cowardly these last few years, hasn't he?"

"So you're a Stormcloak sympathiser-" Cirroc slapped him.

"Don't interrupt me. I, as governor and lord of Dragonstar, have taken it upon myself to send your cowardly, scheming general a message. To persuade him to stop these foolish antics before he causes an all-out war." He smiled. "I'm going to execute you."

"That's old news, Lord," Octavian said with what he hoped was a defiant smile.

But Cirroc wasn't finished.

"And, I've sent a party of riders to go and collect the king's payment from your... contingent."

Octavian did finally reach out and grab him then. He pulled on that moonstone brooch and tore it from the fabric and Cirroc's cloak fell down around his ankles. "What have you done to those men?! They were promised freedom!"

Cirroc looked affronted. "I _have _freed them. From their shoulders. Soon they'll be soaring on spikes above the king's palace in Sentinel, free as birds." He laughed. "Go and get cosy, legate. My executioner will collect you in a week. Until then, sleep well!"

"You promised them safe passage back to the Empire! You vowed."

"No, my acting-general Atah vowed. And he was acting distinctly against orders by doing so. But, I suppose he did manage to bring you all here. That part was crucial. If he'd failed me that, I'd have executed him, too." He shrugged mildly, as if it meant nothing, and brushed his collar down where the legate had scuffed it. "I've had enough of this one for now. Take him back to his cell, would you?"


	8. Chapter 8

_**Author's Note: **__Quite a long chapter this time! Don't hesitate to provide feedback, because I read and take into account all of the reviews these stories get. Tullius, Ralof and Hadvar will return to the story soon, but the plot I have in mind includes other, non-game characters too, so expect to see chapters that contain only them as we progress._

_Thank you for reading, as always, and for sticking with this story if you started reading it when it first went up in February/March. In fact, thank you for just reading this far - it means a lot. If you have any questions, my PM box is always open!_

_Edit: I removed the last section; I may re-use it later in the plot._

* * *

><p>The Redguard prisons proved to be tougher than even they could have feared. As soon as they had passed the gate, Quintus, Hadvar, Ralof and Octavian had been separated and sent to isolated cells where they would have minimum contact with each other. Hadvar and Ralof were led away further into the complex, where their wrists were bound and tied to the horse of a hard-faced prison guard. Hadvar had looked back at Octavian at the last minute, and the picture of his dread burned itself into his mind. Hadvar had been a strong legionary, never prone to doubt or cowardice. To see him break had taken a toll on Octavian. It was almost a final confirmation that they all knew they weren't going to leave this place alive.<p>

The walls of the prison seemed impossibly high. They drowned out all noise of the city around them, so that – even in the middle of the day – the courtyard was deathly silent. From what Octavian had gathered, the sprawling complex was roughly divided into four sections. Well-guarded gates were the only route between these sections, apart from the guard towers on the walls, perhaps, but they were miles out of reach and hundreds of guards stood in the way. Besides, breaking into a different section would achieve nothing – except perhaps a reunion with one or two of his officers, and even then, what would be the point? Two or three men against an innumerable garrison of guards?

Octavian had tried counting the guards on the first couple of days, but had given up soon after. In their dusty brown uniforms and face-guards they were indistinguishable from each other, and there were easily fifty visible on the walls alone. Some nations of Tamriel would have considered prison guardianship a relatively benign job, and assigned hastily-trained citizens or militiamen to man the prisons, but it quickly became obvious that that was not the case in Lord Cirroc's city. Octavian had seen them shooting their bows, standing on the walls and firing at straw targets in the courtyard below. Every arrow found its mark. No doubt it was just a display to scare the prisoners, and no doubt the prison officer would have used his most talented archers in the display, but if even half of the men on those walls could shoot that accurately any kind of organised escape attempt would last mere minutes, if that.

The prisoners were even more terrible than the prison. Octavian would see them when they were all let out into the courtyard. Mostly local-born, at a guess, probably raised on the streets of the East Side. They were Redguard thugs, with small eyes, thick jaws and hard faces. Some were roped in enough muscle to crush a legionary's arm, whereas some were lean and quick-looking, with not an ounce of fat on their bodies. Octavian was a fit man, he drilled with his troops and practised his swordplay regularly, but these men made him look like a child. They eyed him like a pack of foxes who had cornered a weasel, their mouths flicking upwards at the corners. He could almost hear their thoughts. _You aren't getting out of here alive, soldier. They've thrown you into the wolves den now, and taken away the ladder._

His impressions of the prisoners only grew worse over the following days. He sometimes saw lone Khajiit and Argonians cornered in the courtyard by the Redguard thugs and beaten bloody. Octavian couldn't understand why at first, until he saw them in the mess hall, bartering and exchanging extra portions of food. They were taking their rations quotas. _Such corruption,_ Octavian thought. _If the guards would only free me, I'd have half a mind to sign up here and start cracking down on this._ He didn't even care that he'd be working for that snake Cirroc. But there was no prospect of being freed, he knew, so as it was he found himself remaining in his cell more often than not. Years in the legion had made him used to dank stone walls and cells, and he didn't enjoy the Hammerfell air much, anyway. The air was fresher in his cell, he thought. Less sand in it.

* * *

><p>Octavian was thrown back into his cell when he returned from Cirroc's office. His injured leg couldn't take his weight and he fell, landing heavily on his wounded arm. He shouted out in pain, but the guard's faces showed no ounce of sympathy.<p>

One snorted. "Quit howling, Imperial dog," he said as he locked the cell door.

They'd been keeping him down there, and taking him up routinely to see the greasy lord of the city, for three days now, and he was at his breaking point. "When are we getting fed? As a prisoner of war I demand to be fed!" He shouted, crawling to the bars.

"I said shut up!" The guard said, and then stalked away. Moments later Octavian heard the prison door crash shut, then a hefty-sounding lock being pulled across. And he was alone again.

Octavian climbed up the bars with his good hand and leant against them, looking down the corridor. He had determined long ago that he wouldn't mix with the criminal types down here, but his desire to keep himself sane was quickly chipping away at that rule. There weren't many other prisoners, from what he could see. A dark elf sat on his bunk at the very end, hands clasped together and elbows resting on his knees. He had a heavy chunk of metal locked around his throat and irons held his wrists together. High security, Octavian thought, and wondered why he was locked up so tight. His Dunmer eyes gleamed like bloody rubies in the darkness. They flashed up at Octavian's and the Imperial looked away quickly to avoid trouble. In the cell next door, a Breton boy with the faintest hint of facial hair sat against the wall, looking sorry for himself. His clean, pockless skin marked him as being of noble birth, or the son of a merchant maybe. He too was fastened in a heavy neckpiece. Curious.

They were both in cells at the end of the hall, too far away for him to talk to even if he wanted to. But the cell beside his contained an Argonian. All Octavian could see of him were his scaly hands and his snout as he too peered out of his bars. He appeared to have a gash down the left side of his face, from brow to chin. Their eyes met.

"Hey, there, Imperial. What happened to your arm?"

"Some Stormcloak bastard buried an axe in it," Octavian said. "What happened to your face?"

"Some Imperial bastard buried a blade in it." The Argonian cackled after a pause and Octavian could sense genuine humour there. "Your name?"

"Octavian."

"Octavian. It seems half of you Imperials are called Octavian."

"Oh, yeah? And what do they call you?"

"Gold-Heart."

"And you mocked my name?"

The Argonian looked offended. "What's wrong with my name?"

"It's just funny to find someone called Gold-Heart locked up in a prison cell."

"Ah, you might think so at first, but they don't call me Gold-Heart for my manners. They call me Gold-Heart because my loyalty belongs to the highest bidder. The man with the most gold."

Octavian was making sense of this now, as much as he disliked it. "Is that how you found yourself on the Stormcloak side of things?"

The Argonian seemed to smile, but it was hard to tell with their kind. "It is. Ralof was paying quite well for enemies of the Empire from all walks of life to join his rebellion. By the time you and your men found us, you were up against the most experienced ragtag army of vagabonds in Tamriel."

Octavian smiled, without feeling. "That was why you were pushing us back, then. I wondered how Stormcloaks could have fought so fiercely in such conditions."

"They aren't the most organised, it is true, but you shouldn't underestimate them, Imperial. I saw more heart working with them than I did in my time serving alongside your people's armies. But, in the end, it might be that the nature of the Stormcloak army saved us all when the Redguards appeared." He picked at a piece of food between his lizard teeth. "Funny how things work like that, isn't it?"

"It was Quintus who gave the call, not a Stormcloak – or a mercenary."

The Argonian clicked impatiently. "Yes, but an officer's order is nothing if the troops aren't wise enough to act on it. Those stubborn Stormcloaks would have died before they listened to the commands of an Imperial, as stupid as that may be. As it was, those mercenaries were quick to switch sides to preserve their own skins."

Octavian was getting frustrated with this Argonian. Could that have been because there was truth in his words? "None of that matters now either way, so why are we even debating this?" Octavian said. The confusion in the Argonian's face told him that news of Cirroc's actions hadn't spread across the prison yet. "He sent his riders to hunt down the rest of the men and take their heads," he explained.

To his credit, Gold-Heart made a good show of looking grieved. "Really? That's a shame. But I guess it just goes to show: there are no rules in war."

"That's quite a convenient belief for a mercenary to have."

"Isn't it?" Gold-Heart agreed.

They were silent for a while. After a time, Gold-Heart began eyeing up the bars. He took a few paces back, and assessed them from there. Then he came forward again.

Octavian spoke. "How come they've taken you prisoner? You alone?"

The Argonian shrugged simply. "Hells if I know. I was just lucky. When they knocked me down, I thought they'd kill me for sure – my kind don't find much love outside of Black Marsh, but I'm sure you know that – but the Redguard stayed his hand, and bound me in irons instead." Gold-Heart shrugged again. "Who knows?"

"I s'pose it doesn't matter. They're going to kill all of us soon, anyway."

"That's what they think."

The Argonian's last words made Octavian look up. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think? I'm going to escape." He was stroking the bars of his cell now, looking at them, sizing them up like an artist with a block of marble. Octavian's hope was instantly replaced by doubt. "How do you plan to do that? Even if you do break out, the prison is full of guards, and they'd have the city locked down before you made it to one of the gates."

Gold-Heart had a sly look in his eyes. "In my line of work, you find yourself in plenty of war prisons. I've escaped them all."

Octavian overlooked the fact that he probably meant he'd broken out of the Imperial Prison. In fact, he overlooked all of his previous doubts about breaking out of this place. Because here was another who wanted to escape, and both of them were quite experienced military men. They might just stand the smallest of chances. And a small chance was better than the promise of certain death. "What's your plan?" he asked.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note:** Just in case it isn't clear here, Quintus was taken away from Dragonstar before word got out about Cirroc's massacre of the returning column, so he is a bit behind with his knowledge of events. I think it should be clear for most, but in case some of you missed the chapter, or if it has been a while since you read the earlier chapters, I've straightened it out for you!_

_Enjoy!_

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><p>The proud, gilded walls of Sentinel loomed up out of the desert haze. The parapets were coated with gold plate, so that the city reflected the glare of the late evening sun. It glowed and shimmered like sunlight on water as the road wound down through the foothills to its gate. Quintus relaxed in his saddle. His hips and thighs chafed him badly – the journey across the Alik'r had been a gruelling one, though it had been made easier by the fact they had a road to follow. Even so, Quintus could not have been happier if he'd seen the Imperial City itself, and he spurred onwards, away from his escort, grinning as he closed the final gap between him and civilisation.<p>

He was allowed a great deal of freedom by his Redguard escorts. Probably because they knew he'd have no chance of surviving the Alik'r without them, but he'd been able to convince them of his new loyalty to King Casmar, His Majesty the Crown of Hammerfell. Quintus wore a light dune-cloak now, a robe of sand-yellow silk, embroidered over the chest with brocade patterns of castle towers, shields and swords, the outfit worn by the King's elite guard when they were out of armour, he was told, and an outfit that would earn him much respect from the people of the city.

In truth, he was not dreading the prospect of a new life amongst the Redguard elite. He was being offered better pay than the salary of an Imperial officer, after all – many times the number, in fact – and his service to the king would not last forever. He would be able to return to his hometown of Skingrad in a few years a rich man, he thought with glee. Start a family, set them up in a nice comfortable mansion on the good side of the city. Attend one of Count Hassildor's famous feasts!

He could serve a few years in Hammerfell for those treasures. He could do it without regret.

And now Ralof was removed from Skyrim, so... would the civil war be over? Maybe Tullius would give up the hunt. Maybe. But the more he thought about it, the more he doubted it. _Tullius can be as single-minded as a bloodhound when he sets his sights on something._ It was likely he'd send emissaries to Cirroc demanding Ralof's head, once the troops reached Skyrim again and he heard the reports. Hell, it was more than likely that Tullius would want revenge for what the Redguards had done...

The realisation made him start. _I wouldn't put it past Tullius to start a war over Cirroc's actions!_ He was suddenly very aware of how dire the situation could become, and how quickly. If Tullius reacted rashly, King Casmar was unlikely to back down. He was a brave warrior, so his captors told him, and utterly without fear. Quintus prayed to Julianos that Tullius would see the folly of pushing for action against the Redguards. If Tullius led the fourth legion against Hammerfell, Dragonstar would undoubtedly be his first target. Then if Tullius was victorious at Dragonstar, where would he head next? Here? Then what would Quintus do – whose side would he take? He knew that he should join Tullius if he made it that far, but the Redguard king had honoured him with this offer, and it wasn't an offer that was proposed lightly. Quintus would feel strangely treacherous turning his back on it.

The questions reeled around his head over and over, making him feel tight in his stomach.

"Will you join me for a drink, Quintus? I know a place where we can get some fantastic spiced wine." Atah asked.

"No, thank you. I have no appetite tonight," Quintus replied. "Can you show me to my quarters? It's been a long day."

The Redguard gave him a suspicious look, but must have decided to let it go. "Very well. But you must be ready to begin your duties tomorrow. King Casmar the Crown is not a patient man. Kurtis?"

The warrior called Kurtis led him through the streets. They were bustling with traders from all parts of Tamriel – Dark Elves with their outlandish paper lanterns, selling netch jelly, sujamma and ashlander jewellery, High Elves from Alinor trying to sell magic scrolls – their pursed faces suggested they weren't doing as well as they'd have liked; Imperials with spices, Nords with fish, Khajiit with pelts and skooma in the alleyways, set up with their goods in a wide semi-circle on beautiful mosaic carpets. Quintus passed them all by without even noticing them.

The streets bustled with the sounds of trade and laughter, but his head was filled with the clashes of swords and _thwump_ of catapults.


	10. Chapter 10

Vilyn and Gold-Heart sat opposite each other in the prison mess hall. Octavian stood behind Gold-Heart, and the Breton he'd seen in the cell, Guilbert Lelles, stood behind Vilyn. Octavian had learnt that these were the identities of these two shortly after he'd first seen them in the cells near his own. They were wizards. That was why they were locked up so tight. Apparently, they'd killed a handful of Argonians in the backalleys somewhere in the East Side. When he looked at Vilyn and saw those bloodruby eyes and the scars in his face that seemed to ooze and glow with magicka he had no doubt that he certainly had the power to pull that off. But when he looked at Guilbert, the nervous, shifty highborn Breton... his doubts were raised. Mr Lelles looked little older than a schoolboy, with all of the inexperience to boot. He frequently glanced around nervously at the other prisoners. He didn't belong among them, any more than Octavian did. But Vilyn did. There was an icy killer with no regrets behind that stony face. Octavian could _feel_ it.

Both men spoke in hushed tones, lest the guards overhear them, but they were debating with energy. Vilyn leaned on the desk, frozen in place, his eyes never leaving the Argonian. Gold-Heart reacted to the dark elf's quips with lightning smiles and light laughter, but the way his lizard tongue frequently darted out and licked his lips showed his nerves. Around both parties, the prisoners had gathered to watch and listen. Both men had a plan to escape, so naturally they had arranged to meet and discuss how it would be done. Every part of Vilyn's countenance suggested that he hated the idea of working with the mercenary, but his desire to get out alive had won out in the end, so here he was.

The Dunmer spoke. "Gold-Heart. Bit of a pretentious name, isn't it?" There was an undertone to his voice that seemed to crackle like fire.

"They call me Gold-Heart because my loyalty belongs to the highest bidder, not because I'm kind."

"Just as treacherous as the rest of your kind, then. Shame. I was intrigued to see how an Argonian who fancied himself a hero behaved."

Gold-Heart's face was unreadable, but his spines rippled. "You won't find many heroes in general searching in prison cells. If you want to meet an Argonian hero, go to Argonia, there are thousands of them." That raised a few laughs from amongst the prisoners.

"I don't like what you're insinuating, lizard."

"I bet you don't. You're a Telvanni, correct? You've got that unique breed of Telvanni charm about you." Another bout of laughter. A few now eyed the Dunmer, waiting for an equally witty reply.

"Very funny," the Dunmer answered. "You know what else would be funny? I could just roast you in your scales with a click of my fingers." That didn't win him so much support. _Fool_, Octavian thought. _Most of these men around you are Redguard. They have a deep mislike of magic._

"That would be hilarious. Except you can't. Because the guards clamped you. What a tragedy."

"Are you two going to be like this the whole time?" The snooty Breton said suddenly. They both looked at him, surprised. "I'm just saying, you're supposed to be here reaching a decision, aren't you? So far, you haven't gotten anywhere."

"Your boy speaks some sense," Gold-Heart said. "Arguing amongst ourselves won't get us very far."

"So what do you propose? We work together? I'm not working under an Argonian," the Dunmer said.

"Well, I guess you'll just have to stay here, won't you?" Gold-Heart said mildly. He was winning the majority of the prison's support before he'd even laid his plan down. And Octavian was convinced that Gold-Heart's plan was foolproof. Then again, if the Dunmer's proved better, he wouldn't hesitate to back him instead. Whichever offered him the best chance of breaking out of here and getting back to Tullius, and telling him what had happened in the Dragontails. He couldn't wait to see the look on Cirroc's face when the legion hauled his slippery hide back to Skyrim.

"So how do you plan to get us out of here, exactly? Enlighten me." Vilyn was getting aggravated.

Gold-Heart made a show of cleaning dirt from beneath his nails. "Easy. I've found myself in dozens of war prisons in my time. I'm sure you've heard of the Nightdown Disaster at Blacklight, a couple of years back?" Everyone knew about the Nightdown Disaster, where a thousand Argonian prisoners of war had escaped a Dunmer dungeon. Octavian was sure he'd chosen that example just to rile Vilyn further, and it seemed to work.

Vilyn shook his head impatiently. "What of it?"

"Instigated by yours truly." He looked around at the others, the thieves, muggers, thugs and beggars, addressing them now. "I can break out of anywhere. And I can break all of you out, too, if you'll follow me."

"So you can pick some locks. That's a good trick. But what then? Break us all out and then make a mad dash for the desert?" the Dunmer said drily. "We'd never be able to sneak out of here. In case you haven't noticed, it's a lot harder to get three hundred men out undetected than one." Vilyn made a good point, and a couple of concurring nods reinforced that.

"Of course not. Who said anything about stealth? The garrison here is a hundred strong. We have three hundred. We have the numbers, and we'd have surprise on our side. That makes up nine-tenths of a battle, so I've learned in my time. But this needs to be a co-ordinated effort. Across the prison." _That means I need your support,_ that last statement almost said.

The Dunmer scoffed. "How do you plan to do that?"

Gold-Heart grinned. "I think your Breton friend is more resourceful than any of us gave him credit for."

Octavian looked at the Breton. He was holding up a small red flower. "Invisibility," he said as if it needed explaining.

"Very well played," Gold-Heart said. "So, here's what I propose: We wait for the guard. When he arrives, I'll swipe his key. I'll toss it to your friend here, and he can move around the prison unseen and unlock the other cells. Then, we wait for a signal – say, sunset, or something – and storm the place. By the time they realise what's happening we'll hold every tower and gate in the complex, and after that it's just a matter of picking off the survivors."

Colour drained from the Breton's face. "...Me? Surely not... someone else?"

"You're the only alchemist here. You're the safer bet." Octavian said. Gold-Heart smiled.

"I take it you're in then, Octavian?"

Octavian didn't like it as much as he could, he admitted. Not breaking out so many lawbreakers. But... it was necessary. He and Gold-Heart were innocent – he knew that because they were both brought here from the battlefield. He still didn't know about the other two, but he doubted Guilbert would have played a big role in the massacre. Besides, the criminals wouldn't last long once they got onto the streets of the city. Octavian would slip away, regroup with Hadvar and head straight for the stables, rustle a pair of horses, and be half-way to Solitude before Cirroc restored order. If Gold-Heart wanted to accompany them, that was his choice, but he wouldn't be waiting up. "I'll do it, yes."

Vilyn hadn't even had time to state his plan, but he must have guessed he'd never win their support, because he only suggested an improvement to Gold-Heart's."There's just one thing I'd change. Give me the flower. I know more about alchemy than the boy. And, I know a lock-cracking spell. No need to trouble the guard and risk detection swiping a key." It was very clever by Vilyn, taking Gold-Heart's role out of the plan, and giving himself the leading position. But many of the men around them seemed to agree, and there was no way Gold-Heart could reject it, not with good reason. So he reluctantly conceded.

"Oh, and we're stopping by the jailmaster's office before we leave. I want my dagger back."

The statement obviously perplexed Gold-Heart as much as it did Octavian, because he shrugged and said "okay, fine," but the Breton was smiling. It was unnerving, but Octavian had no time to dwell on that now.

Because they were agreed. They were breaking out of Dragonstar Prison at sundown.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Author's Note:_**_ I'm pleased with how this chapter turned out - I feel like it is one of the better ones in this story, and so I hope you like it. Thankyou for sticking with this story - more to come!_

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><p>The worst part of it all was the heat.<p>

The sand beneath his bare feet scorched his skin. The flesh of his cheeks and nose were already beginning to burn and blister. His hair hung lank, and tickled his bare chest and shoulders, leaving it damp where it touched his skin.

"Keep moving!" the man shouted and hit him across the back of his head with the flat of his blade. He grunted and shook his head, but wouldn't look back. He wouldn't give the man that final courtesy.

_Two times in my life, now, men have tried to execute me. Let's hope the Redguards do a better job than the Imperials,_ Ralof thought with a bitter smile.

He looked around the courtyard. This whole land was... strange. The buildings were blocks, carved from marble, alabaster or sandstone. Some were topped by gold-plated domes, some by redbrick tiles. Some windows were bare and some had red curtains but none contained glass. There was no turf. No mud. No grass. Just this damned _sand _that just heated in the sun and burned. At least they'd stripped him of his Stormcloak furs. _Or I might have collapsed on the way to the block_, he thought and laughed out loud. The Redguards looked at him like he was some oddity. To them he probably was.

Then something altogether different occurred to him.

"You have no concept of Sovngarde, do you?" He asked the man behind.

"Be silent," he threatened.

"It was just a simple question."

"Be silent, or I'll execute you right now."

"Why would that bother me?" Ralof retorted, "I only have... roughly five minutes left, anyway." He suffered another blow on the back of his head.

"Try not to rile them, Ralof. Our ancestors would want us to face our deaths with due ceremony."

Ralof looked across. Hadvar was being marched forward too, just five paces to his right. Ralof smiled at him, with feeling – probably the first time he'd done so since they were both little more than boys. Despite all the hatred they'd bore for each other in the war, a certain companionship had built between them during their time in the cells. In this foreign world, any man from Skyrim was a welcome sight.

"Ironic to see you on this side of the chopping block, after the welcoming you gave me back at Helgen," Ralof said.

Hadvar laughed. "Ironic that we spent all that time trying to kill each other, and now we're going to die side-by-side – as allies!"

Ralof chuckled. Then Hadvar did. And then they were in fits of laughter, soft at first, but slowly building until they stopped walking and just howled. Howled at the unnatural sun and the unnatural city and the unnatural people. The guards struck them again, but that just made Ralof laugh louder.

"Do you hear this, you savages? You've got the wrong men. Gods damn it, he was supposed to die on _my _blade, not yours!" Ralof managed between laughs. Hadvar was almost sobbing.

The guards put an end to it. The one marching behind Ralof lurched forward and grabbed a hunk of his hair, and in a flash his other arm came around and Ralof was on the floor, being dragged towards the executioner's block. Ralof screamed. Redguards cheered and bayed for blood. They even expected dying men to accept their final moments with grace and discipline. _Such a strange people, _he thought. He fought against the guard's grip, struck him several times, but he could do no damage through the man's armour. By the time he reached the block, he was defeated, and obediently slumped over, waiting for the axe blow.

"See you on the other side, brother!" Hadvar shouted. Ralof smiled.

"And you too."

"Shut u-" the soldier never finished his sentence. Ralof strained to look. The man had caught an arrow in the throat, and dark blood was pouring down his Redguard coat and congealing with the sand on the ground in a thick, saturated pool.

A howl filled the sky over the courtyard, a savage sound akin to the baying of wild wolves. Fear struck through Ralof's chest like lightening. Until he recognised that the howl was actually a warcry.

"Prison break!" they screeched.

Ralof was quick to capitalise._ Let's show them how we meet Sovngarde in Skyrim,_ he thought as he shouldered into the executioner with all of his remaining strength, driving him to the ground. Another Redguard came forward, eyes fiery with murder. He recognised him as one of the guards who had mocked him whilst he was locked up. "You're a kitten amongst the lions, now, Nord. And the lions will have their fun." Ralof leapt at him like a savage, snarling, and the man must have been taken off guard because his eyes widened and then Ralof ploughed into him and they both went tumbling. Ralof spat in his face.

"You're a pup amongst the wolves, now, Redguard."

The man had a split second to make sense of those words before Ralof beheaded him with his own scimitar. It felt like justice.

Ralof was suddenly in the mood for justice. He wanted to lead a group and push straight for Lord Cirroc's palace. He was sure it would be possible – many of these men would feel wronged by him, and be willing to join. But Octavian came out of the swirling storm of bodies and grabbed him by his shoulders.

"We have to get out of here. Quickly!"

"No, I'm going to take Lord Cirroc's head!"

"We can take Cirroc's head. With the Fourth at our back. We'd have a much better chance leading a cohort of Imperials than this undisciplined rabble. Come back with us!"

"There are more than just Imperials in the Legion, legate," Ralof said with icy coldness. "And you know that Tullius would kill me as soon as I set foot back in that country."

"Not if I vouch for you, he won't. I'm offering you a lifeline, here, Ralof. Don't rebuke it."

"Sovngarde waits for me, Octavian. I wouldn't go with you if I wanted to."

Octavian wanted to say more, but a Redguard jumped at him from his right. He was one of the prisoners, an old, blind man that must have mistaken him for one of the guards. Octavian tried to throw him off, but in the end his anger and the battle-lust got the better of him and he cut him down was a snarl. He looked about for Ralof, but he'd vanished into the fray.

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><p>Gold-Heart's prediction seemed to have been accurate. The horde of desperate, half-starved criminals armed with plates, cutlery, swords – anything sharp they'd been able to get their hands on in the five minutes they'd had before storming the courtyard – were quickly surrounding and wiping out the guards, who were dispersed in small pockets of a dozen or less in the sea of escapees. Octavian pushed his way through the chaos, searching for Hadvar. He didn't care about the others – Vilyn, Guilbert, Gold-Heart – they could all go hang, but Hadvar was the last man remaining to him of his cohort and, by the gods, he wasn't losing that man as well.<p>

The prisoners were swarming, flooding in and out of every possible door, many now bearing Redguard shields, swords and helms that they'd looted. Some ran with arms full of silverware or food, hoping to escape in the chaos much like himself. _Let them,_ Octavian thought. _Let them rip Cirroc's city to the ground._

The attackers had now split up into several groups, each with a different aim. One was being led by a large, burly dark elf, who were chanting for Lord Cirroc's head. Another was scaling the walls, hoping to get at the marksmen that were forming up on the battlements. A bellowed shout of "SOVNGARDE!" made Octavian turn to look, and he saw that Hadvar and Ralof had found each other and were now charging side-by-side against a regiment of fresh city guards that were storming the courtyard. _So, he's lost to me then. Reunited with his friend. Maybe that savagery is in the blood of all Nords, buried deep. Hadvar always seemed so wisened, so calm before._ A hand fell on his shoulder, cold and scaly.

"Gold-Heart."

"Mr friend. What now?"

Octavian gestured at Hadvar and Ralof. "Well, your allies are down there."

"Mercenaries have no true allies besides themselves. And those they choose."

"That's true, I suppose," Octavian allowed.

"So. What now?" Gold-Heart asked again. And that was all that was said. Gold-Heart's heart changed allegiance.

Octavian made no comment on it. _Seems I've traded one man for another,_ he mused. "I'm heading back to Skyrim. I'm going to bring the legion back here, and I'm going to bring Cirroc the Emperor's justice."

Gold-Heart clicked his teeth. "I don't know if that would be wise."

"Why not?"

"Well, bad news travels faster than the swiftest horse, does not the saying go? By the time you return, news of the Dragontail Massacre will have reached your general, as will news of this prison break. Now, you know your Tullius better than I do, but I doubt he'd love you for being a part of either of those."

That had some truth to it. _Tullius will want to know why I didn't die along with my men. And why I have staged the breakout of a prisoner-of-war camp. Tullius can be very traditional like that._ The more he thought about it, the more the road to Skyrim closed before him.

He gritted his teeth. He was out of ideas. "What do you suggest we do now, then?"

Gold-Heart flicked his head in the direction of the bitter dark elf and his Breton lackey. "Those are better allies than many."

"But there are many better allies." They were murderers, and without honour. But then Octavian looked down at the blood on his hands, and laughed at himself. _So am I._

"They are as good a fighters as any, we would be safer with them."

"That might just be," Octavian said.

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><p>They grouped up with them. Gold-Heart snatched himself a bow, and Octavian found a straight-edged sword and an iron helm. Vilyn offered them a dull nod as they approached, and the Breton smiled. "It is good to see men of such military stature join us," the Breton said. Octavian swallowed his contempt and fell in beside them.<p>

A new regiment of Redguards were now filling the eastern side of the courtyard, pouring in through the gates that led out into the city. _To freedom._

"How many men have they got?" the Breton said, his voice wavering.

Gold-Heart shrugged. "Maybe four hundred? They seem to be drawing soldiers from all across the city."

"This breakout has taken far too long," Vilyn snarled. "We should have been away by now."

The soldiers were forming a line now, bringing to bear thick, golden Redguard shields and a wall of spears. For a moment, Octavian doubted the courage of the men around him. They were a rabble, and the sight of a military formation may frighten-

A shout went up, and a bulge of prisoners swept forward, led by a blonde-haired brute naked from the waist up that could only have been Ralof. Taking up the shout, others charged too, carried on the wave of battle-rage that crashed over them. It was a better chance than any, and time was running out.

Octavian charged in, too, flanked by Vilyn, Guilbert Lelles and Gold-Heart, and together they hacked their way furiously, desperately, towards the courtyard gate.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Author's Note:** Hello again! I suppose you could call this the beginning of Act 2, though it's not really that structured. Either way, things are picking up! Welcome back, and thankyou for reading as always._

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><p>Life in the poor side of Dragonstar was hard – even more so since the prison break a week ago. The city was still in chaos; guards only dared to go out in groups of four or more (and always in daylight), shop's shutters went down at sunset and didn't open again until midday, beggars were slaughtered and left in the gutters... and you heard stories. One night, from the upstairs window of the inn they were sheltering in, Gold-Heart, Octavian, Vilyn and Guilbert saw flames licking up from the West Side and a column of smoke stretching away into the sky. The next day they heard rumours from travellers in the inn's main room that someone had set fire to the guard captain's manor as night fell. The flames had grown out of control, the travellers said as refugees gathered around to listen, and in the dry conditions had leapt from house to house. They said that almost half that side of the city now lay in charred ruins. That night the inn saw an influx of men and women with fancy clothes and clean skin looking for a place to lay low. They were told the inn was full but they jingled their purses and a good two dozen poorer men were thrown out onto the street to freeze. The situation looked dire for the group of escapees too, until Guilbert Lelles spoke up and one of the rich men vouched for him and they were allowed to stay.<p>

Maybe there was more to the young, innocent Guilbert than first met the eye, Octavian thought from where he was seated by the fire, wrapped up in a threadbare brown blanket. It was strange, given how warm Hammerfell was during the day, just how cold the nights got. Guilbert sat across from him in a ragged armchair, brow furrowed, trying to make out the words on one of his destroyed books. _Then again, maybe he's just a rich brat with some lucky connections._

Vilyn was sitting on a dining chair that he'd pulled over from a nearby table, staring into the fire and pressing his thumb delicately against the blade of his dagger. The fire glittered in his ruby eyes. It seemed as though Vilyn had been sitting there, unmoving, for hours. Octavian stared at him but the elf didn't seem to notice;_ lost in his thoughts_, Octavian guessed. Vilyn was a bitter man, even more so than Octavian had first assumed. His mind always seemed to wander to thoughts of violence, fire and death. Not once in a week of knowing him had the Imperial seen him crack a smile, not one that wasn't laced with poisonous hate or sarcasm at any rate. _The sooner I'm away from here, the better._ It wasn't the first time he'd thought that. But each time he did, he could never decide on a better plan than the one he had now, which was just to lay low and survive. But the company and the environment and the situation made him uncomfortable, and each day he grew more restless because Cirroc had slaughtered his men and there was nothing he could do to avenge them. So the thoughts rattled around his head over and over again, getting nowhere, and wore away at him until he could do nothing but stare into the fire and brood. He glanced across at Vilyn again with newfound understanding. Maybe he was in the same situation, just with an altogether darker train of thought looping in his head. Octavian scratched his dirty, straggly beard - he hadn't shaved since before he'd left Skyrim - and shook his head. _The sooner I can get away from here, the better,_ he told himself again.

His stomach growled. He wondered how long it would be until Gold-Heart came back with food. The innkeeper, a man named Oska, had agreed to give them a place to stay and hide from the law until things in the city returned to normal, but he refused to give them free meals (which Octavian could fully understand), so they relied on Gold-Heart's swift fingers – or Vilyn's telekinesis charms, depending on whose turn it was – to feed them. But it was dark now, the fire was getting low, and he still hadn't returned.

"Where do you think he is?" Octavian asked, not specifically of either of his companions.

Vilyn was the one who replied. "I don't know, but he'd better be back soon," he spat, lifting his eyes from the fire. Octavian was sure the glint of the fire remained in his eyes for a brief second. "And if he doesn't come back with a feast fit for a lord I'm going to pry off his scales and roast him up myself. This is taking too long." Octavian noticed a small, neat bead of dark blood swelling on the end of Vilyn's thumb – where it met the dagger's tip. Vilyn didn't seem to notice at first, but eventually he brought it up to his mouth and sucked it clean. "Bloody Argonians, you can't trust them."

Guilbert eyed the elf with two big eyes and went back to his reading. They were all getting irritable. Octavian closed his eyes and leant back in his chair, planning to bury his hunger pangs in sleep.

* * *

><p>Gold-Heart dropped the sack of potatoes and onions at the alley entrance and ducked quickly into the shadows. The figure he'd spotted was moving quickly down the street, flanked by eight soldiers with the dragon and crown of Dragonstar on their chests. It was cloaked in darkness, but Gold-Heart caught glimpses of a face in the dim light coming from the house windows. There was nothing overly remarkable about him to the average passerby, but Gold-Heart's cold-blooded pulse quickened immediately. <em>I'd know that thin face and dark slick hair anywhere.<em> "Our very own Lord Cirroc," he whispered to himself. But what was he doing out at this hour? And in the East Side, of all places, so far from his palace and guards? Surely it was too dangerous in the city for a midnight saunter?

Gold-Heart backed further into the alleyway as the group passed him by. Cirroc was muttering something to the soldier nearest to him, but Gold-Heart couldn't quite make out what. They were moving fast though, and the soldiers' hands were at their sword hilts as if they were expecting trouble. _Food can wait_, Gold-Heart decided. Whatever this was, it was something important. So, leaving the potatoes and onions where they were, he set off down the street after them - moving slowly so as not to arouse their suspicion.

Their discussion grew more heated as they walked, until Cirroc's voice grew loud enough to hear.

"I know it isn't the best place for a meeting, but it's safe. Gods know the Empire's ears are everywhere these days, and the people don't exactly harbour much love for me at present, do they?"

"Exactly, my lord, so – forgive my insolence - wouldn't it be safer to meet him somewhere in West Side?"

Cirroc laughed harshly. "The noblemen are more dangerous than the beggars in these troubled times – they blame me for the collapse of their trade businesses, the riots, and the looting. By the gods, they treat me as if I myself opened the prison gates and ushered them out!" He cursed under his breath. "This little incident will set back months of progress. He won't be pleased."

Gold-Heart frowned to himself. _It almost sound like he's scared. But who should he be scared of?_ He immediately considered the King of Hammerfell, but threw the thought aside. _If the King had come to visit, there'd have been a parade, and rows of soldiers, and all the labourers would have been given the day off in celebration – they wouldn't be meeting in secret somewhere in the East Side. So who could it be?_

Cirroc and his entourage stopped outside an old rundown shack. It seemed like Gold-Heart was about to find out. There was a sign nailed to a rusty bracket above the door: the chipped paint could just about be made out to read 'The Mercenary's Whore.'

"Sounds like my kind of place," Gold-Heart mused and followed them inside.

The inn's ceiling was so low that Gold-Heart found himself constantly ducking, and a thick haze of smoke hung in the air, a scent at once bitter and savoury. Some kind of Redguard delicacy, he guessed. But other than the strange smoke the place was almost identical to every other seedy tavern he'd visited in his years as a mercenary and he blended in with the crowds right away. Cirroc's men broke away one by one, but Gold-Heart noted that each one of them took up a position in the shadows and kept their eyes fixed on Cirroc. _Whoever he's visiting, he doesn't want them to know he's brought backup with him._ Cirroc made his way to the back of the establishment, where a row of high-backed benches and tables were attached to the back wall. There was a man waiting for him. A man who wore a black hooded cloak over his usual clothes, but Gold-Heart saw the flash of hidden gold. _Now this is interesting._ Cirroc sat down opposite him.

Gold-Heart swiped a drunk man's drink when he wasn't looking and sat at the table just behind them, acting as casually as possible. When seated, the high back of the bench hid him from their view; he hoped it would make them forget he could hear them as well.

"There's a lizard in the seat behind us," He heard Cirroc utter.

"No matter," the mysterious companion said with an air of mildness. "Just another drunk. There are plenty in this locale – surely you've noticed?"

"What if he's listening?"

"So what if he is? He won't remember the words by morning, and even if he did he wouldn't be able to do anything with them. By the Aedra, you aren't usually this paranoid. What's wrong? Hiding something?"

"No, no, no, of course not."

"I hope not. And remember: I'm a wizard. I know when you're lying to me. Now. How are things progressing?"

"Well. Very well. The ambush in the Dragontails went exactly as planned – both sides were slaughtered with very few survivors, at least one of whom made it safely back to Skyrim to tell Tullius that the Redguards had gone back on their word and attacked them."

"Good. That's good. How have your men responded to the action? Have their suspicions been aroused? And another thing is troubling me: you say few survivors. How many? Where are they now? You were only supposed to leave one."

Cirroc's words stumbled out of his mouth so clumsily it was almost painful to hear. _This guy doesn't need magic to tell that he's not telling the whole truth - it's probably written all over his face._ "Yes, there – there were several survivors. The Imperials killed my sergeant in the battle and his second-in-command took over but he didn't know that the orders were strictly to take no prisoners, so several of their officers were brought back here. Stormcloak and Imperial alike."

The wizard's voice lost its mild tone. "We wanted this to be a clean operation, Cirroc. Each witness is a new mind to ask new questions. Where are these prisoners now? I want them killed."

Gold-Heart could almost hear Cirroc squirm in his seat; it would have been satisfying if the situation hadn't been so worrying. Fear stabbed him in the gut. _They want to kill us. Two men sitting less than three feet from me want to kill me._ The others would have to be warned, and fast. They had to leave the city as soon as possible.

"They – escaped," Cirroc went on. "And one was taken to Sentinel to serve in the King's guard. But -" Cirroc's voice broke off with a breathless whine and then a horrid mewing sound. The taste of electricity filled the air.

"You have come very close to failing, Cirroc. Another slip up and we'll find ourselves a lord of Dragonstar that can follow orders properly. I want these prisoners killed. Them and this second-in-command of yours."

"Why him? He's done nothing wrong," Cirroc managed between painful gasps. Gold-Heart hated to think what the wizard was doing to him. _They say the wizards of Alinor can torture their victims just by looking at them – even kill them. Maybe this wizard is an agent of the Thalmor?_ The prospect was almost too terrifying to comprehend. After the Great War, the Thalmor had retreated to their territories to regain their strength, but everyone knew that the war would spark up again. If there were Thalmor agents in Hammerfell…

"He will die because I say he will die. He has annoyed me, and interfered with my government's plans, and for that he must be punished."

"But… but he's a Forebear. It is their tradition to recruit from the brave amongst their enemies. Surely you would not punish a man for -" another gasp and barely concealed scream.

"I could not care less about barbaric Redguard customs or traditions. He will die." _Yep,_ Gold-Heart thought, _sounds like a high elf all right._ "He will die and the prisoners will die and then we will get everything back on track. In the meantime I will dispatch one of my own agents to deal with this Imperial officer you sent to Sentinel. With luck, Tullius won't hear about our plans and he will keep believing that the Redguards are his new mortal enemies. If he finds out… Well. Have you ever seen the Mind Dungeons of Cloudrest, Cirroc?"

"I can't say that I have."

"With luck it will stay that way. I will see you this time next week. Same location. And here." Gold-Heart heard the sound of coins chinking. "Call it an investment. Clean up this mess with the prison, hire the Dark Brotherhood – I don't care what you do, just see that it isn't wasted. And do not fail again."

The movement of clothing and sound of fading footsteps told Gold-Heart that the wizard was gone.

"Damned elves. Thrice-damned elves. I should never have gotten involved in this mess," Cirroc muttered to himself and then departed as well, his soldiers following. Some fifteen minutes later, when he was sure the coast was clear, Gold-Heart left his seat and ran back to Oska's inn, not once stopping, not even to pick up the potatoes and onions.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Author's Note: **Here we are, chapter 13! (It should have been Chapter 15, but I've done some reshuffling). Quite a long one. I've also done some quick touching-up of the earlier chapters and changed the crappy layouts, so if you're interested, go take a look :) (Be warned: things get a bit suggestive towards the end of this chapter. If you want me to change the rating from T to M, let me know)._

* * *

><p>Quintus watched as the moons of Nirn kissed Sentinel goodnight. A thin mist hovered just above the rooftops below, glowing with an ethereal light as the moonlight touched it. It weaved its way between every building, through every window, lingered in the rafters of every house and in every room, as if it held the entire city in a sleepy embrace. He felt like a bird, perched on the window-ledge of his tower three-hundred feet above it all. The windows in Samaruik palace (the seat of the ruler of Sentinel - and Quintus's new home) were all glassless, so the night wind gently kissed his brow and cooled him after the exceptional heat of the day. Through the glow of the mist the warm orange of housefires, streetlights, and guard's torches sometimes penetrated, creating a canvas of contrasting light that slowly faltered as the land sloped down to the sea, where a final row of tightly-packed pockets of light marked the docks, and beyond that: the sea of Iliac Bay, a glorious silver blanket under the gaze of the moons. Quintus had never seen anything even close to being as beautiful as what he saw right now, not anywhere in the Empire; not even the Imperial City.<p>

He closed his eyes and focused his other senses, drinking it all in: the scents of a hundred spices, of herbal smoke, and of freshly-baked sweetrolls floated up to him. The sounds of a sleepy city drifting into the deeper night mingled with the slow, rolling whispers of the sea in the far distance. Somewhere in the bazaar below a male Redguard singer was reciting a slow and melancholy rendition of 'Cyrus', the Redguard sailor's song. The creaking of a thousand ship's hulls, and the tolling of the lighthouse bell, occasionally permeated through it all. The 'Symphony of Sentinel', the locals called it. Quintus had heard no other city sing so sweetly.

His first week amongst the Redguards had gone well. More than well.

* * *

><p>King Casmar had taken an instant liking to him, it seemed. Atah recounted the story of Quintus's defence against the Redguard forces with surprising accuracy. King Casmar sat still and unmoving through the whole thing. His appearance wasn't what Quintus had been expecting, though he wasn't sure what he'd expected to begin with. Casmar the Crown sat on an alabaster throne inlaid with gold leaf, on top of some marble steps, between two large braziers. The flames sent shadows flickering across the king's face, giving him an otherworldly, almost Daedric appearance. His skin was golden, his hair and thin, neat beard both onyx black. He had a long nose, broken at the bridge, and two small eyes set high in his cheekbones, like a bird of prey. Those clever eyes watched Quintus throughout the whole story, never once faltering, though when Atah finished he smiled.<p>

His words were slow and deliberate, as if he gave careful thought to each one. "If every one of my officers were as skilled, we'd have the whole of High Rock in our grasp by now, and half of Alinor. Welcome to Sentinel, brave warrior."

It hadn't seemed like much at the time, but when Atah led him out of the throne room he slapped him on the back and said: "The King does not give out praises easily, Imperial. You are privileged!"

"That was praise? He hardly said anything."

"Casmar hardly says anything without due thought and deliberation. Every word he utters comes from both his mind and his heart." Atah gestured. "Come, we have much to do."

"Where are we going?" Quintus asked.

"To the barracks. It's time for your trials to begin," Atah said. "Follow."

"Trials?" Quintus asked, dreading the reply.

They talked as they walked, heading down the corridor to the courtyard that backed onto the palace's barracks. "All of the initiates into Casmar's personal guard have to pass the Trials of Hunding before they become full members. Of course, many of the trials have already been completed by potential Redguard warriors by the time they reach full manhood, so the process is largely ceremonial – more to please the Crowns than anything, as they do love their tradition – except in the rare case that a foreigner joins the ranks."

"What happens then?" Quintus asked.

"Foreigners are less familiar with the teachings of Hunding, so they generally struggle to complete the trials. But don't fear them – your life won't be in danger. It's simply a way for the king to know that his trust in you was not misplaced. A judgement of your ability, both physical and mental. To tutor you in the ancient Redguard way of war. And, of course, you'll have to renounce your faith in the Divines and accept the Yokudan pantheon as your new gods."

"My gods are my gods," Quintus said instantly. "I won't change them."

Atah shrugged. "It's either that or have your head cut off. You don't have to forsake your gods properly, all you have to do is say the words. Like I said, the Crowns love their tradition. It would also be of great benefit to you if you obtained a copy of the Book of Circles, and learned a little more about our gods, so you could readily answer any questions asked about them if you raised anyone's suspicions."

Quintus looked at him quizzically. "The Book of Circles?"

"A training-manual-holy-book that was written by a warrior called Hunding over two thousand years ago. Every Redguard family has a copy of it in their home and everybody listens to a reading from it every night, by the head of the family. Our swordsmaster here in Sentinel is an avid fan of it. A good read," he added mildly, "Hunding had some good ideas about how to use the sword. It might improve your fighting ability."

"You don't seem very sold on the spiritual aspect of it," Quintus said.

Atah shrugged again. "I worship Hunding as fervently as any other Redguard. But I'm a Forebear. I understand that foreigners are just as adherent to their own traditions as we are to ours. I won't force you to change. But listen to me: you're lucky that you're having this conversation with me, because there are many Redguards in Hammerfell that greatly dislike foreigners – your people specifically, after the betrayal of the White-Gold Concordat. These people would have you dress like them, speak like them, worship like them, fight like them, think like them, and then still kill you for your Cyrodiilic skin. So blend in. Treat every aspect of Redguard culture that you see – be it a palace, a weapon, or a gods-damned pair of earrings – like it's the best thing you ever saw in your life. Tell them how much better it is than your backwards and unholy Imperial culture, and you might just get away with your life." Atah sighed. "There was a time when foreigners were welcome in Hammerfell. Especially here in Sentinel – we're a Forebear city, you know, and traders came here from all over Tamriel – but those times are over. Everybody hates the Empire at the moment. So stay low, do your duty, blend in, grow a beard, and if you value the skin that holds you together do _not_ visit the cities of Hegathe, Stros M'kai, or Gilane. Hatred for the Empire is rife in those kingdoms. They are mass-executing Imperials and Bretons on the streets, citing treason as their reason for acting."

_Oh, gods. What have I gotten myself into?_ Quintus thought. "Why are you helping me?" he asked.

"Because I saw you fight. I saw your charisma on the battlefield. And I think you might be the best thing that ever happened to King Casmar in his life." With that, they reached the door that entered onto the courtyard. "Here we are," Atah said. "Good luck, Imperial, and remember: humility."

_Humility. Humility. Right._ He stepped through the door.

Quintus still wasn't used to the blazing heat of mid-day Hammerfell. The sun was blinding, and seconds after he stepped outside he felt himself beginning to sweat. The corridor had opened onto the courtyard from its western side. Behind him was the Samaruik palace; to the east and south high sandstone walls marked the boundaries of the palace grounds, which were watched over by a blocky tower at the corner where they intersected. Rows of fig and olive trees stood against the walls, providing some much-needed shade. The northern end of the courtyard was the back of the barracks building. There was a door on the second floor, and a sandstone staircase that led down to the courtyard was the only way to access it; there was no door on the first floor. The barracks building, like the rest of the palace, was much more decorative than the city outside, etched with swirling patterns reminiscent of the Alik'r's dunes. In front of it, standing in semi-orderly rows, were at least a hundred Redguard warriors. _It seems I have an audience,_ Quintus thought. He noticed that they were all stripped down to the waist, their torsos bare and gleaming with sweat.

"Take off that silly robe, Imperial – or you'll boil like a mudcrab in a pot!" a Redguard said. He was in a fountain in the middle of the yard, washing himself in the water, but he stepped out when Quintus approached. To Quintus's shock, the man was completely naked apart from a small pair of breeches that ended way above his knees. "We can't start your trial until you have – come on. What are you hiding?" He flashed a beaming grin of white teeth, and the other watching warriors chuckled.

Quintus was suddenly happy for the heat then, or they would have noticed him blushing. He awkwardly wriggled out of his gold robe and let it fall to the floor, leaving himself standing there in only his undergarments and a pair of wooden sandals. The Redguards howled. "_Look at those chicken legs!_" he heard one of them say, and another: "_So pale! Are all Atmoran men like that?_"

_They're trying to shame me,_ Quintus thought. _They're playing with me._

"Let's begin my trial and be done with this," he shouted.

The Redguard smiled again. "Let's not be so hasty, now – we haven't even introduced ourselves yet! I have the honour of being Swordsmaster Fihadi." He dipped his head. "Who are you?"

"Quintus Vane," he said. "Former officer of the Skingrad Guard and former captain of the fourth legion, Legate Octavian's cohort."

"That's a very long name," Fihadi quipped. "How on earth do you remember all of that?" More laughter. "I'd heard that Imperials had long, unwieldy names, of course, but I thought that was all exaggeration! Okay, alright, I can see you aren't enjoying this." He picked up two scimitars that were leaning against the fountain, and handed one to Quintus. Then tutted. "No, you don't hold it like that. Like this! By Ruptga, don't they teach you anything in the Legion? It's not a stabbing sword, it's a slashing sword. You hold it delicately, not like a fire-poker! 'The sword is the self, its edge is the mind', the Book of Circles tells us. Your sword is an extension of yourself."

The other warriors were in fits of laughter, some with tears pouring down their faces, as Quintus fumbled with the sword. Rage filled him. _If they want to laugh, I'll give them something to laugh about. Can you fight as well as you talk, Fihadi?!_ He slashed out, quick and fast, aiming straight for the man's lower side, but Fihadi's sword moved faster. Fihadi's arm came around and suddenly Quintus was face-down in the warm sand. Fihadi pulled him up; he was not smiling anymore. "Your first trial: 'Anger is the crack in the hull that sinks the ship.' That's one of the Sundas maxims. A warrior must be able to stand above mere taunts, and keep his mind clear. But that's okay: You haven't read the Book, so you can't be blamed for failing. Alright, onto the next trial!"

Quintus fought down his shame. He saw that the other Redguards were no longer laughing, either. _They were all part of it,_ he realised. _All testing me, and I failed._

"Are you ready?" Fihadi asked. _Focus, this time,_ Quintus thought.

"Yes."

"Seriously, though, Imperial; hold your sword lightly, so you can react to attacks from any angle and change the direction of your own strikes quickly. I'm going to attack you; you try to attack me too. Ready? Go."

Fihadi brought his scimitar up into a high guard above his head and circled to the right. Quintus followed him, holding his sword in front of his chest, aimed at his opponent. _With a central guard_, he thought, _I'll be able to defend against attacks from any angle._ Fihadi swept his scimitar to the left and Quintus moved his blade to meet it; the steel _clang_ed together. Quintus retaliated with a strike of his own, going for Fihadi's legs – hoping to take advantage of his opponent's high guard – but Fihadi danced away, then circled around, looking for an opening. He attacked - so fast that Quintus barely had time to respond - slashing up from below. Quintus blocked it, but barely; he was forced to take a step back. Another attack came, quick as lightning, then another; soon Quintus was fighting to find any opportunity to swing his sword at all, being so focused on defence. _He's quick! Really quick. I have to stop these attacks…_ So he stepped left, then right, trying to throw the Redguard off balance and capitalise; instead Fihadi stepped inside him and slashed, forcing Quintus back again… and as he stepped back his heel hit something cold, something made of stone, and then he was falling backwards.

Icy cold water swallowed him.

When he emerged from the fountain, shivering and dripping, Fihadi laughed, but unlike earlier, it wasn't derogatorily. "The fifth Tirdas Maxim: 'The victor's tempo grasps his opponent's and devours it.' If you can set the pace of the duel, the duel is yours to win. Control your environment and give your opponent no space to manoeuvre. Why do you look so sullen? You pulled a couple of good moves on me! That inside step, trying to force me back? That was good."

"It didn't work, though, did it?"

Fihadi laughed. "I am a Sword-Singer. I know the Book of Circles from back to front, and inside out – all thirty-eight grips, all seven-hundred-and-fifty offensive stances and eighteen-hundred defensive stances. I've trained my whole life to be a walking, living, breathing sword. If a lowly Imperial officer could best me after five short minutes of training, I'd have to take a quick leap off of Sentinel Lighthouse, because I'd be worth nothing!"

Quintus stood there, dripping, scowling. "If I can't beat you, then what are we doing? How do I win the trial?"

"You do not _win_ the trial, silly Imperial. You _learn_ from it. We've completed the Sundas and Tirdas trials already; there's only one left. Care to dance?"

Quintus raised his sword and Fihadi grinned. "Excellent!"

This time Fihadi stood back, sword above his head, waiting for Quintus to attack first. _Set the pace_, Quintus thought and moved forward. He brought his own blade above his head and swept at Fihadi's; the swords met with the ring of metal, once, twice, three times as Quintus sought to break the Sword-Singer's defence. He took a step inside, forcing Fihadi to react faster, then quickly broke off and brought his scimitar in a fast arc down towards his feet. The Sword-Singer stepped back; Quintus smiled and stepped inside before he could reclaim the space and carried on the attack. Their scimitars met in the middle. Both men strained, using all their strength, trying to drive each other back. Quintus slipped away, letting his opponent stumble forward after the sudden removal of pressure, and stepped inside-and-left and shoved; Fihadi staggered. He attacked again; his blow was deflected, but he threw off Fihadi's counter-strike with a quick flick of his scimitar. _I think I'm getting the hang of this!_ He thought... Until Fihadi's forehead filled his field of vision and soon he was on the floor again, his nose and mouth in a world of pain. He could taste blood.

"The third Loredas Maxim," the Sword-Singer was saying. "'A thrust is elegant, and a cut is powerful, but sometimes the right action is a head-butt!' That is one of the most important things to know about the way of the sword in combat: there is more to combat than the sword. Ha!" He threw back his head and laughed, then beckoned one of his warriors forward. "I do hope you've been paying attention," he said as he hauled Quintus to his feet. "Because now I want to see you use them in action. May I introduce you to Ayda?"

She stepped forward and bowed, hand over her chest, the way Redguards do. Quintus wiped blood from his face. "She came to us from an Alik'r tribe at the age of fourteen, six years ago. A talented fighter, and quick learner." She was stripped almost bare, like the men, wearing only a short pair of breeches and a leather harness over her chest. Quintus had never seen so much of a woman's flesh before. She was very dark-skinned, almost the colour of jet, as the native tribals of the Alik'r desert tended to be. His limbs turned to jelly. Her face was beautiful; a delicate jaw that came down to a small chin, but hard, strong cheekbones, all framed by thick dark hair that came down well past her shoulders, braided in the nomadic style and hung with carved bone and precious stones. Big, defiant eyes of the deepest brown he'd ever seen studied his own face fearlessly. "What's wrong, Imperial?" She asked.

"A woman?" he asked.

"A woman," Fihadi confirmed. "Though that makes no difference; you are warriors, nothing else. Now fight, come on, and stop staring at each other like that! Remember, Quintus: apply what you've learned."

_Apply what I've learned. Right._ Watching his foe closely, he held his scimitar lightly in front of his chest with both hands, as he had when he'd fought the Sword-Singer. They locked eyes and he determined he would keep them there – not on her body.

She danced forward, watching him warily with those eyes. They flicked suddenly to the left and he followed them with his sword, blocking her attack. But she was deceptively quick, maybe even as quick as Fihadi, and her counter-attack caught him before he could react and she nicked his bicep. Warm blood trickled down his arm. She smiled.

"Focus, Imperial!" Fihadi ordered.

_It doesn't matter that she's a woman,_ he told himself. _Don't go easy on her._ But it was difficult. All his life, women had been these delicate, dainty things. He'd had his fair share of experience with women in Cyrodiil, obviously, polite Imperial women who he'd danced with at countless balls and celebrations. But this was an altogether different style of dance: an intimate dance of blood, of sweat, of blades and physical contact.

He shook his head. _We are warriors, nothing else. Fight!_ Urging himself to focus only on the duel, he advanced on her quickly, bringing his scimitar in an upwards arc that forced her back. He stepped inside her space and drove her away with a combination of further strikes. As he did he accidentally brushed her offhand with his own.

She combated his strikes and then went of the attack herself, bringing her blade in wide arcs, left, right, left, right… _right_! But this time he was quick enough to see it coming and countered it. Without thinking he took advantage and made to shoulder into her, but she fell backwards before the contact and he lost his balance, stumbling, then falling onto her…

Her skin was warm and sodden with sweat. It could only have lasted seconds, but it felt like they were there years, skin on skin, face to face…

She used his momentum to kick him over her head, and flipped back onto her feet elegantly. He scrambled back to his feet too. She was smiling slyly. A soft ripple of laughter passed over the warriors watching. He forced the ridiculous thoughts from his head and filled it instead with what Fihadi had taught him.

_Anger is the crack in the hull that sinks the ship._

_ The victor's tempo grasps his opponent's and devours it._

_ A thrust is elegant, and a cut is powerful, but sometimes the right move is a head-butt._

_Let's end this waltz._

He jabbed his scimitar forward, straight at her chest. She moved to counter it, as he predicted she would, and as she did he grabbed her sword-wrist and jerked it away. She yelped in pain and dropped the sword. He capitalised, spinning around with his own and landing a soft blow on the back of her head with the flat of his blade, to signify a kill.

It was over.

Fihadi came over and dipped his head. "Congratulations, Imperial! But don't forget: the objectives of these trials are not to win, but rather to apply what you have learned." He clapped his hands. "That's it for today. Tomorrow, you will learn three more maxims of Sundas, Tirdas and Loredas, then apply them in combat. So come without your silly robe next time!"

The trials had continued over the next week, and each day he learned three new maxims from the Book of Circles, until by the end of it he could recite many of them off by heart: _First blood matters less than last breath; Discover your foe's habits and discard your own; Live and die in every moment of battle; A closed line is not open._ By the end of the trials he knew more of the art of combat than a recruit in the Legion would have learned in his first year of training. One of the days the king had come to watch him fight, and though he hadn't said anything, Atah assured him that he was impressed. Fihadi had assigned Ayda as his official sparring partner since then, and though they had duelled half a dozen times since the first time they'd met, the shock of seeing her body was still raw to him, and they still hadn't spoken even a word to each other. And the memory of being on top of her, staring into those big brown eyes, her mouth twisted into a bemused smile, was frozen into his thoughts.

He liked the Redguard approach to combat. The Legion was about drill. Constant drill and practise: "Get it right a thousand times in training and you'll get it right once on the battlefield," was one of the Empire's favourite military philosophies - but his training with the Redguards had taught him that there was more to war than simple discipline and shieldwalls. War was not a ponderous automaton, driven by a thousand mindless cogs each doing their own little part to keep it all running… War was an art-form, fuelled by passion and energy, and he was learning how to use the artist's tools –

* * *

><p>His thoughts were disturbed by a noise in the corridor, just outside his quarters. The faint rustle of clothing; he was sure he'd heard it. There was no more sound for a while, however. Eventually he disregarded it, and he was turning to look out over the night-time cityscape again when –<p>

The creak of a floorboard. He was certain this time.

He hopped down from the window ledge as lithely as he could, landing silently on the thick carpet of his bedroom. From there he went over to his bed, opened the draw beneath it and pulled out his sword. His fingers traced down the smooth steel; it was of good quality, better than anything he'd had serving in the Legion. After a few swings, he stood and watched the door, waiting. It was unlikely that there was any danger, really. Probably one of the servants, or one of the king's guards going to the privy because they were too desperate to hold on until morning. That was what he thought until he heard the _tumblers creaking in his lock_.

_They're trying to break in here!_

But who could it be? A thief? No, the palace was too secure for that, and if a thief did break in they'd be aiming for the throne room, or something, rather than the quarters of a household guard. There was no time to dwell on it further, however. Quintus crept over to the door and waited, scimitar poised. As soon as it opened, he planned, he would cut the intruder down.

The door flew open with a loud _crash_ and a figure in a black cloak ploughed into him before he could react. It seemed to move with an inhuman speed and agility; it pinned him to the ground with more strength than he'd have expected from its slight frame. A sharp pain shot down his arm from his wrist as if he was being bitten, and his hand spasmed and dropped his sword.

_No!_

He tried to scream for help, but the thing must have expected that because a paw clamped down over his mouth. The fur smelt musky and dirty, as if the attacker hadn't washed for weeks. _A Khajiit!_ He realised with alarm. He kicked out sharply against its legs and it hissed angrily. Then its face was hovering inches above his own and there was murder in its animal eyes. "Fucking targets, why do you always fight back?" It hissed with vehemence.

Quintus heard the sound of a knife being pulled from its sheath.

His whole body went weak. "No, please," he gasped. "Please." All of his earlier passion for battle was gone, drained from him. Fihadi wasn't here anymore to tell him what to do next, to utter insightful passages from the Book of Circles…

The khajiit snarled: "For the Dominion!" But the knife never came down.

Instead, the khajiit's head fell from its shoulders. Ayda was standing over him, bloody scimitar in both hands from where she'd cleaved the assassin's head off. She smiled, and offered him her hand.

"Thankyou," he said weakly as she pulled him up. She was wearing a nightrobe, for which he was thankful because it drew all of his attention to her face. _So strong, and so delicate._ The window where he'd been sitting earlier was now behind him, so the brilliant silver glow of the moons reflected off of her eyes, making them shine like Iliac pearls.

"Don't mention it," she replied, and he was suddenly aware that he was staring.

He cleared his throat. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is."

They sat up on the window together for a while and enjoyed the Symphony of Sentinel, but it was already late, and he was still shaken from the attack, so she soon told him to get into bed.

"What about the body?" he said.

"We'll tell Fihadi what happened in the morning. For now, you need to rest."

"Okay. Alright." He went back to the bed. She made to leave and – despite himself – he grabbed the hem of her sleeping robe. _By the Eight, I must look pathetic. But I don't want to be left alone tonight. Not with that body in my doorway. Not after the attempt on my life._ "Ayda?" he asked. "Could you… Stay here?"

She smiled at him and curled up on the bed, saying nothing.

He looked down at her for a while, just watching her slow breaths come and go. Until something occurred to him.

"Hold on…aren't your quarters on the other side of the palace? What were you doing over here?" he asked.

She looked up, and he could see in the moonlight that she was blushing deeply. "I… I was out for a walk. I couldn't sleep."

She wasn't convincing in the slightest, but he gave her the benefit of the doubt. Sleep came slowly, and whenever he fell into it the image of the khajiit's snarling eyes shocked him awake again. On one occasion, he woke up and found Ayda looking up at him…

His suspicions over why she was awake and near his quarters were confirmed when she slowly crawled up him and kissed his lips. He didn't question it. He just kissed her back, passionately, and only when he felt her tremble under his fingers ever so slightly did he pull away and breathe. The moonlight was now streaming through the window, making everything black and white, and it shone through her thin nightrobe, outlining her body revealingly. She offered him a shy smile, lifted it off over her head, then slipped under the duvet with him. Her skin was as warm and moist and soft as it had been under the courtyard's sun…


	14. Chapter 14

Gold-Heart burst through the door of the inn and doubled over, panting. Octavian and Vilyn stood up immediately.

"Where's the food, lizard-breath? You've been gone hours," Vilyn snarled.

"Give him a moment," Octavian said, putting a hand on Vilyn's shoulder. He looked at Gold-Heart. "What happened out there? Have they upped the night patrols?"

Gold-Heart waved his hand, still breathless. "No, the guards weren't a problem. We need to leave the city. Tonight."

"What? Why?" Octavian asked.

"I think Cirroc is working for the Thalmor."

"You think?" Vilyn said, shrugging off the hand and coming forward. "So now we have nothing to eat because, what? Your tail-scales started itching?" He raised his dagger.

Gold-Heart raised his hands. "Look, I'd gladly fight you on an equal level, dark elf, but not while I'm out of breath." He took a second to gather himself, then explained everything he'd heard – about the plot to spark war between the Redguards and the Empire, about Cirroc working for the Thalmor, and about the elf saying that they were going to track down the survivors and kill them. "They're going to send agents after us. We have to leave the city as soon as possible."

"How can you be sure of that?" Vilyn asked.

"I heard it with my own ears. Is that conclusive enough for you?"

"Are you certain?" Octavian asked.

"On my word and honour," the Argonian purred.

Vilyn shook his head. "The word of a mercenary? An _Argonian_ mercenary?"

Octavian ignored him. "If there is even a hint, the tiniest possibility that the Thalmor are in Hammerfell… We can't afford to take any chances. We must warn Tullius and King Casmar before this goes too far."

"We can't warn them both. There are only four of us - we'd never make it through the Alik'r and the Dragontails if we split up," Gold-Heart said.

"Woah woah woah, four of us? It's you they want, not me – this has nothing to do with me," Guilbert Lelles stammered.

Vilyn turned to him. "Yeah, try that one on the soldiers, see how far it gets you. As far as they're concerned, you're a wizard - a murdering wizard at that, and a wizard that just escaped from prison. You know how Redguards feel about wizards. No, you're an escapee just like us, whether you like it or not."

"Does that mean you're coming with us, Vilyn?" Gold-Heart asked.

Vilyn made a face like he was swallowing bile. "I don't hate the Thalmor as much as I hate Argonians, but I still hate them. And I'm not sitting around in this barbarian city waiting for them to kill me."

"That's fair enough," Gold-Heart said.

"But I'm not your friend. Not even close. Understand?"

"I wouldn't want you as a friend anyway," Gold-Heart said.

"You're all mistaken. They'll protect me once they know who I am. They have to. I'm a nobleman! The son of Francois Lelles!"

"Which means your father is probably dead," Vilyn said. "Remember the fire in the West Side?"

"Don't say that! Don't say things like that," Guilbert said, close to tears, and Octavian found himself feeling sorry for him. Pathetic as he was, he was little more than a boy, and he hadn't actually done anything wrong - short of annoying one of the city guards - if his story was to be believed. Miraculously, it seemed that Vilyn was thinking the same thing because his voice softened. "Look, I know you didn't do anything wrong in that alley, but there isn't much you can do about it now. But I told you I'd get you out of this mess, so… stick with us. Stick with us and we'll get you out of Hammerfell." He tried to smile. It was an unnatural thing. "There's a mages college in Skyrim. We'll take you there. Yes? You still want to study magic?"

Guilbert nodded, gulping back tears. "I was never cut out for a merchant's life anyway," he said, and they laughed dutifully.

Then the mood changed.

"Someone's coming," Gold-Heart said and pointed out of the window. Four figures, all swathed in black cloaks, were coming down the street, and coming quickly. They were completely invisible when in darkness, but Gold-Heart saw them as they passed under a streetlight. And in that light he was sure he saw the glow of golden fur. "Four of them. Khajiits."

They immediately dropped down, out of view. "Put out that lamp," Octavian said to someone at the back of the room. They grumbled, until Vilyn turned and threatened to rip their soul apart with lightning. That seemed to do the trick.

"How did they find us so quickly?" Octavian said, incredulous.

Vilyn stabbed a finger at Gold-Heart. "They must have followed you back from the inn."

"Not possible. I made sure I wasn't followed."

"Well, how else could they have found us?" Vilyn demanded.

Octavian looked around at the many faces in the inn, now obscured in darkness. Most of them were Redguards, obviously, but there were all kinds of people: Nords, probably warriors-turned-settlers after the conquest of Dragonstar some years ago; Elves of all kinds, and Khajiit, likely those who had disagreed with Thalmor policies and so had been expelled from the Dominion. "There have been plenty of refugees coming through this inn over the last few days. Any one of them could have been a Thalmor spy." Then Octavian had a thought. He looked over at where Oska, the innkeeper, stood behind the bar. He'd been cleaning glasses until now, oddly quiet for a burly Redguard like himself. "Oska, your offer of a place to stay was very generous. And free of charge, too. As much as I appreciate that kindness… It arouses my suspicion also. You wouldn't happen to be working for the Thalmor, would you?"

Oska dropped a glass in panic. "I-I… Legate, you must understand -" he mumbled, trying to explain himself, but his nervous reaction had already doomed him – Vilyn pelted him with a bolt of lightning and he fell to the ground in the shape of a thousand tiny dust particles.

"The rest of you had better stay quiet or I'll fry you too," he snarled at the rest of the inn.

"Well, that's that then." Gold-Heart said. "I fear it was too little too late, though. He must have already tipped them off - they're heading straight for us."

"What do we do now?" Guilbert asked.

_There's only one thing left to do,_ Octavian thought. He heaved a great sigh. _I suppose it was always going to come down to this._ "You three will have to leave through the back door, into the alley behind the building. I'll keep them occupied - cover your escape while you lose yourselves in the backalleys. When you've gotten far away – and I mean really far - head to the stables at the East Gate. Rustle some horses. You have to stop Tullius. Stop him before he can cross the Dragontails, or it will all be over."

Gold-Heart stepped forward with alarm. "What are you doing?"

Octavian drew his sword, a battered old iron thing he'd found in the prison break. "I'll cover your escape."

"No," they all said at the same time. "Friend, you must see reason," Gold-Heart said. "Tullius won't listen to any of us, you know that. Especially a Stormcloak merc-"

"Go, Gold-Heart. By the Eight, I lost my cohort because I wasn't brave enough – no, don't argue with me. I'm not making that mistake again. Go!"

Gold-Heart put his hand on his shoulder. "Sun-on-my-scales, your sacrifice won't be in vain. I swear it."

Octavian laughed at that. "It seems like you do have a heart after all, mercenary. Go!"

They went.

The alleys were dark and cold, but none of them said anything about it. None of them said anything, actually. It wasn't long before they heard the sounds of fighting behind them; it didn't last long. _Octavian is dead, then,_ Gold-Heart thought, and vowed again that it wouldn't be for nothing. They broke into a run.

As they reached the end of the alley, a figure in a black cloak blocked their path. It smiled at them, white teeth behind bronze lips.

"Justiciar Nelacar, at your service. Did you really think to fool us with such a simple trick?" He looked mildly surprised when he saw Gold-Heart. "The Argonian from the tavern. I wondered if I might have trouble from you again, but I never expected you'd be quite _this_ wrapped up in this mess."

"Pleasure to meet you again," Gold-Heart hissed.

"It's a shame Cirroc botched the original plan. It would have been much kinder to let you die honourably in those desert mountains, in blissful ignorance, rather than have you discover the real reason your friends died."

"I'd take an extra week of life over an honourable death any day," Gold-Heart said. "As for blissful ignorance – I'm not much of a fan of that either, to be honest."

Nelacar grinned again. "I like it when my enemies have a sense of humour – I really do." Vilyn tried to cast another lightning spell, but Nelacar waved his hand. Emerald green light filled the whole alleyway for a short second. Vilyn screamed and fell to his knees.

"What did you do to him?!" Guilbert shouted.

"Oh, don't be such a child – it's only a silencing spell," Nelacar said.

Gold-Heart looked back down the alleyway but there were three more of those khajiit agents coming up behind them. Nelacar noticed his interest. "Do you like our little pets? They call themselves the Pellitinian Claws. You won't find better-trained assassins anywhere else in Tamriel, not since the Brotherhood collapsed."

"What about the Morag Tong?" Vilyn said defiantly.

Nelacar considered. "The Tong? No-one's heard from the Tong in decades."

"That's rather the point of the Tong," Vilyn said. Gold-Heart looked back. The Claws were getting closer. _No chance of escape, and certainly no chance of fighting this guy. We're trapped._ "As nice as it has been chatting to you, Justiciar, I'm getting fairly restless. So, what now? Where are you taking us?" he asked.

"Oh, you'll see soon enough," he said, and then there was a flash of white light and a faint ringing sound and then everything went black.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Author's Note:_**_ I have started another Elder Scrolls story, a short one just for fun. It's called 'Ninivehta', so have a look if you're interested. Thankyou, and enjoy!_

* * *

><p>Quintus and Ayda stood in King Casmar's throne room, shivering in their nightwear. Fihadi stood to the king's right, in front of the brazier, scowling down at them. Atah had been bandaged up and tended to by healers. It seemed that he'd been attacked in the night as well. The palace's elderly chief healer was still fussing over his wounds even now. It was early morning; the sun had barely peeked above the horizon, and the night's chill still lingered over Sentinel.<p>

Even in the morning gloom, the Samaruik palace was stunningly beautiful. Countless murals and stained-glass windows showed ancient Redguard heroes in the midst of battle, some with radiant, glowing swords. Quintus assumed that they were the Sword-Singers of old, from the times when they still knew the secrets of swordmagic. The throne room itself would have been big enough to engulf the whole of the Chapel of the Divines back in Skingrad, Quintus thought. The roof was wide and vaulting, laced with ancient support beams, and pillars etched with epics in the Yokudan language held it all up. The whitewashed floors were broken up by ornate rugs of red, orange and yellow. And down the centre, leading right to the king's feet, was a mosaic that showed one of the Redguard kings from long ago, dressed in full war armour. Quintus, Ayda and Atah stood on that mural now, waiting for the Swordsmaster to speak.

"Quintus, your story first. What happened?" Fihadi asked.

"An assassin broke into my quarters late last night –"

"Yes, we figured that part out. But how late was it? How did he break in? What did he say – details, details!" Fihadi demanded.

Quintus swallowed nervously. He didn't know how they'd react to news of what he and Ayda had done last night, so he'd decided to leave that part out. But the lies to fill its space weren't coming to him. "It was fairly late, Swordsmaster. The moon was low in the western sky so it must have been past midnight."

"Yes. And yet you say Ayda stepped in to help you? Her quarters are nowhere near yours –"

Ayda stepped in. "I was out for a walk, Swordsmaster. You know I like my midnight walks."

Quintus saw the faint touch of a blush appear on Fihadi's cheekbones. "Yes. Right. I understand." He cleared his throat. _Wait a minute_, Quintus thought with a start. _She's been with him, too!_ He glanced over at her, where she was looking up at Fihadi innocently. _How many others, I wonder? She has some explaining to do later_._ At least I know now how Fihadi would take the news of our little 'encounter'_. Fihadi's questions brought him back to the present. "So, Quintus, tell us about your khajiiti assassin. Did he give you any clues as to who he was working for?"

"Not that I can think of," he said. "I was under attack, though, so I wasn't exactly listening for clues."

"Ayda?" Fihadi turned to her.

"He shouted 'for the Dominion', Swordsmaster," she said matter-of-factly, with a glance at Quintus. _Damn, how did that slip my mind? Well, I suppose I was distracted…_ he chided himself. _By the Eight, I've been distracted by her since I first arrived here. I never was such a fool for women. But she's so different from the others I've met! So independent, so strong. And so eager to sleep around, it seems. Maybe that's just a part of her culture? She's from one of the Alik'r tribes. Who knows how those people think?_

He noticed that Fihadi was looking at him expectantly. "Well?"

"I'm sorry, Swordsmaster, my mind was elsewhere."

Fihadi jabbed his fingers at the sides of his head angrily. "Focus! Have you not been paying attention in my lessons at all? How do you hope to be a good fighter if you can't even pay attention in situations of life or death? Because that's what this is. An attempt was made on your life last night, and on Atah's as well. Atah didn't have the benefit of a guardian angel coming to his rescue, but he still fought his attacker off. Do you know why that is? Because he is _focused_. He –"

King Casmar held up his hand. "That's enough, Fihadi. The Imperial will learn, in time. He is a foreigner, and our ways are strange to him. But he will learn."

Fihadi gave his king a defiant glare. "He'd better, and he'd better soon, or he won't be serving in my palace guard any longer!" Fihadi stalked from the chamber. The palace doors slammed behind him, echoing around the hall.

"Pay him no heed, Quintus. He's always had a flair for the dramatic. As the Sword-Singers often do." He tilted his head. "This one distracts you." He gestured at Ayda.

Quintus felt his face flush; he knew there was no point denying it. "How do you know?"

Casmar chuckled. "I know men, and I know women. And each time we meet, I know you better, as well." He looked at Atah. "I will finish this myself, as it seems Fihadi is not coming back. Any clues from your assassin?"

Atah stepped forward, wincing as he did. His wounds were deep, and many. He had bandages around his forearm, his upper leg, and his chest. It looked like he'd suffered much worse than Quintus had. "Not directly, your majesty. But I did note that they were both khajiit. Maybe they're both from the same school of assassins?"

Casmar smiled. "Very good. Keep guessing."

"They're probably from the Dominion, considering their race, and what they said. But it would be a foolish assassin that stated his employer's identity before killing his target."

"Exactly," the king confirmed. "Which means it is possible they are Dominion assassins. But it is equally possible that they are simply Dominion renegades, trying to pin the blame on the elves. It is no secret that many khajiit are unhappy under Altmeri rule. Or they could be agents from High Rock, or the Empire, trying to sow dissent between us and the elves. There is no love between us and the Empire these days. Or they could be Dominion agents simply trying to throw us off. As the Book of Circles teaches us: The deeper you look, the more paths there are. The question is: which is the right one? And why did they target you two in particular? But these are questions for another time, when there are more clues to follow." With that, the king stood. "That concludes our business for this morning, I think. I will increase the palace garrison, and re-introduce the night patrols. There will be some grumbling, but it is for the best, I think, in case the assassins try again."

Quintus went to leave with the others, but the king stopped him. "No. Quintus, I would speak with you in private. Come with me."

Ayda winked at him. "His majesty likes you," she said. He wanted to say something, something about last night, something about Fihadi's blush, but she was gone before he could find the words.

Casmar led him up a flight of alabaster stairs, and down an ornate corridor with at least a dozen doors to either side. The entire ceiling was a painting, a painting that showed a battle between the Redguards and Bretons. _Ancient enemies,_ Quintus recalled being told. The Redguard warriors were frozen in mid-charge, while the Bretons waited with their shields locked together. In the background, a city with distinctly Breton architecture was in flames; a fleet of Redguard warships waited just outside, in the city's harbour. A thick film of mist covered the battlefield. "What is this painting of?" Quintus asked.

"The Battle of Cryngaine Field. The final battle of the War for Betony, about two hundred years ago."

"It must be very important to your people, for you to have invested in such an elaborate painting."

"Very astute. And yet we lost that battle." Casmar chuckled. "Does that confuse you?"

"A little," Quintus admitted.

"It was commissioned by King Camaron's son, Alaric, following the end of the war. King Camaron died in that battle, and with him the war was lost. Alaric went mad; he wept for a week, and shouted from his balcony about the unfairness of the gods and the failure of his warriors to protect his blood. Then he had this painted, in this corridor, so that every Redguard king afterwards would see it every night as he resigned to his quarters and be reminded. Only when Camaron is avenged and Betony is ours again will we wash it off and paint something else there. Of course, that was the belief of him and his family line; I killed his great great grandson and took the throne for myself, so it has nothing to do with me, really. But it is a pretty painting, don't you think?"

_King Casmar the Crown_. Quintus had heard of the Redguard king's famous usurping of the throne of Hammerfell, but he'd never have expected the king to be so dismissive of it. "Why did you take the throne?"

"It was my duty. I don't expect you to understand right now, but I will explain." They reached the end of the corridor, where a heavy door etched with gold scrollwork blocked their path. A servant opened it for them from the other side. "For now, all I want is for you to listen, listen and reply. The time for questions will come after, but only after. Understand?"

Quintus nodded.

"Good. Please, take a seat by the fireplace."

The servant lit the fire as Quintus sat in one of the plush armchairs. Casmar disappeared into his private quarters, and returned shortly with a battered, tarnished sword. Its blade was blackened as if it had been set on fire, and its leather handle was unravelling and threadbare. Casmar ushered the servant out, sat opposite and held it out for Quintus to look at.

"Tell me, what do you see?" he asked.

"A sword."

"Of course it's a sword. Look closer. What do you see?"

Quintus looked. "It's very old? And – scorched, like it's been in a fire. It's a different shape to the swords the other warriors use. Less curved, and the blade is thicker towards the hilt."

"Very good. You're right, on all counts. How old, do you think?"

"I don't know. Three hundred? Four?"

Casmar smiled, almost sadly. "Three thousand and six hundred. At least. That's the ninth century of the first era, when my people came to Tamriel from Yokuda."

Quintus didn't know what to say. "It's in good condition for three-thousand years."

"Yes. My family have kept it safe. Well, as safe as we could, whilst using it in battle. We were the first Sword-Singers, you see, under Hunding himself – the burn marks are from where my ancestors first used their Sword-Singing powers to set the blade alight in battle. My ancestors were naturals amongst the Sword-Singers, and eventually caught the eye of the royal family. We were tasked with protecting the royalty of Yokuda from harm. But it was more than that. We had Ra Gada roots – we were Forebears, which meant we had a natural rivalry with the royals."

"You're a Forebear? But people call you Casmar the Crown."

"I told you not to ask questions until the end. I will get to that, in time." He sighed. "We defended the royalty of Hammerfell despite our Forebear roots, and we became a symbol of the unity Redguard society could achieve. Of course, shortly after that Hammerfell fell into civil war, and the Crowns and the Forebears massacred each other mercilessly. No doubt you learned in your Imperial academies about how the Empire eventually stepped in and stopped the fighting, but that wasn't the full story. You can't just end a civil war like that. It requires a symbol, a unification, stability."

"They looked to your ancestor."

"Correct. The Imperials used my family as a unifying symbol for the people to rally behind. We rebuilt Hammerfell under the Empire, and made it strong. Then the Lhotunics cropped up, somewhere in between Crowns and Forebears. They believed in a compromise between the two groups. There was promise there, but the war with the Dominion crippled any progress that could have been made. The Crowns became more distrustful of outsiders, and many people agreed with them. Many traditional Forebear families switched sides. The rivalry between our factions grew again. Until I led the Forebear forces from Sentinel to relieve the Crown city of Hegathe. No doubt you've heard of that?"

"Yes, your act of compassion unified the Crowns and Forebears at last," Quintus said, eager to show off the knowledge he'd gained by living among the Redguards.

"It set the stage for it, yes. But the old king, the Forebear king of Sentinel, hated the Crowns. He wouldn't allow for any reconciliation with them. Wouldn't concede to any of their demands."

Quintus saw where this was going. "You thought that was the wrong way to go about it."

"Yes. I saw the opportunity for a unified Hammerfell at last, after three thousand years, and I saw the king squandering it. So I led my Forebear and Crown army from Hegathe and took the throne by force." The king looked him in the eye. "There was no perfect solution to that situation. But that was the best one. My ancestors were always the protectors and uniters of Hammerfell; it seemed only right that, after so many years, we were also its rulers. That's why they call me the Crown: I turned my back on my Forebear king to unite the realm. People thought that by calling me Crown, they showed that I was a traitor to my own heritage. But I think it shows that I'm willing to sacrifice all to forge a single, united kingdom. I see that as a virtue. So I took the insult as my title."

"I understand."

"Good. That's good. I need you to. Because now I need a right-hand man, just as the old kings did."

"You - you want me to be your right-hand man?"

"Hammerfell is strong now. Strong and ready. We could fulfil Alaric's vengeance within the year, if we had the army. You were taught how to fight the Imperial way – disciplined, orderly, structured – and you fought with great courage and initiative in the Dragontails."

"Your majesty… That would be a great honour. But I can't. The Empire is my home. I can't turn my back on them."

"I'm not asking you to. Ever since the Emperor was murdered by the Brotherhood, Cyrodiil has been in chaos. I'm asking you to train my armies and lead them against the Bretons in High Rock. If we can show the cities of the Imperial province how ready we are, how strong and powerful, they will pledge their allegiance to us. You never have to raise your blade against your own people. Together we can fight the Dominion, but as part of an Empire ruled from Sentinel, not the Imperial City. Why should men be ruled from a palace built by Elves?"

"Tullius would never accept it. You know that. He leads the fourth legion in Skyrim, and they are still strong, especially since his victory over the Stormcloaks. And after the actions of your generals in the Dragontails, Nords and Imperials alike in Skyrim are no doubt howling for Redguard blood."

"The Nords won't be happy under his rule. He committed atrocities against their people during the war, and enforced the ban on Talos worship. When they learn of our strength, they will join us against Tullius."

"And if they don't?" Quintus asked.

Casmar the Crown ground his teeth. "I am _not_ a bad man, Quintus. But if they don't, there'll be no other choice but war."

"I will not fight my own people. Should you ever ask that of me, I will refuse. I will not fight the fourth legion."

"I understand that. I know loyalty, Quintus, so I understand that. But the Empire is dead. With the Emperor gone, Cyrodiil will descend into another civil war, and the Thalmor will strike. But a union of Hammerfell, High Rock and Cyrodiil? It would be mankind's best chance of survival." He stood. "You can walk away now, if you like. I won't stop you. Ayda would follow you back to Skingrad –"

"I doubt that."

"Because she's slept with the Swordsmaster? That's nothing. You're exotic. Exciting. And by going home to Skingrad, you'd be taking her to a world of turmoil and adventure. She would follow you. But mankind would remain divided and the Elves would take us all out, one by one, and return Tamriel to an age of slavery and darkness. The path to our victory will not be easy. But it is the only path. So will you kneel? Or will you walk away?"

He knelt.


	16. Chapter 16

"Get up. Time for work."

_What is that smell?_ Was Gold-Heart's first thought on waking. It was dirty, sticky… overpowering. The kind that sticks in your nostrils and throat. He rolled over and retched, and saw that he was lying on a patch of straw in the corner of a dank room. _Where am I?_ He blinked and looked around. The room was damp and gloomy. There was rot and moss growing between the brickwork. There was a broken old table in the middle of the room, and the only light came from a torch held by someone behind a set of bars. _Bars!_

The revelation made him sit up. "Up! Up! Come on!" The harsh voice said. It sounded strangely familiar…

"Who are you?" Gold-Heart croaked, shielding his eyes from the light. It was then that he realised how dry his throat was. How long had it been since he'd had a drink? He knew something had happened. Something, _something,_ to do with an alleyway. An elf? A dark elf? No, that didn't seem right. But this figure had a Dunmer accent. "And where am I?"

"Prison. Again. Only this one is much harder to break out of."

"What are you talking about?" Gold-Heart asked. Then the figure adjusted its grip on the torch and the light caught its face. And everything came back to him. "_Vilyn! Vilyn Telvanni!_"

The figure seemed reluctant to meet his eyes. "Get up, Gold-Heart. Time for work." Then he unlocked the bars and turned to walk away.

Gold-Heart rushed to his feet and grabbed the dark elf through the bars. "What is going on here? Where am I? And tell me straight this time."

The elf yanked away from his grip. His time in the cell had made Gold-Heart weaker than he realised, and he was thrown off easily. How long had he been in here? "The Thalmor took us prisoner, remember? We're on a plantation, somewhere in Northern Valenwood. Near Arenthia."

"A plantation? You should feel right at home then, Telvanni slaver."

"Are we back to those kinds of insult already?" Vilyn asked.

"Why are you on that side of the bars?" Gold-Heart snarled.

"It seems that the Thalmor don't have much of a problem with dark elves. Or Bretons, for that matter, because of their elven blood. Provided that they behave."

"You have no honour," Gold-Heart accused.

Vilyn smiled that terrible smile of his. "And you do?" He reached through the bars and his fiery dagger was at Gold-Heart's throat in a flash. "_Your people destroyed my home! There's not a single one of them left. I am the last. Because of you and your ilk. You talk of honour? You, lizard? Who fights for the highest bidder and has no loyalties to speak of? Don't speak to me of honour!_"

"I was loyal to Octavian," he rasped. "Which is more than can be said for you."

That seemed to touch a nerve. Vilyn dropped him and he fell, gasping. "Octavian is gone."

"Yes, he is. But we made a promise. We told him we'd stop the Elves."

"You promised, not me. The only promise I made was to my father, and I intend to keep it." He sighed. "I _am_ sorry. You don't hear that often, from a Dunmer. Come on, you have work to do. You don't want to slack on your duties around here. I've seen what they do, and it isn't pretty. Enchanted shock-whips. Rend the flesh right off of you – scales or not."

Vilyn turned to go, but Gold-Heart had one last trick up his sleeve. "This is bigger than you and your feud."

Vilyn stopped. He was quiet and still for a long minute, deep in thought. "Perception is relative."

"What kind of bullshit is that?" Gold-Heart hissed.

"From the Teachings of Vivec. It means different people see things in different ways."

"Don't try to hide behind philosophy." Then Gold-Heart thought of something that made his insides turn to snakes. "…How did the Thalmor find us, in that inn?"

"I didn't tip them off, if that's what you're suggesting," Vilyn growled. "I wouldn't do that. But the situation changed, and I saw an opportunity. If you were in my position, you would have took it." That last part seemed like he was convincing himself as much as he was Gold-Heart.

"Oh, I'm not so sure that I would," Gold-Heart said. "What about Guilbert? You promised to take him to the Mages College. Are you going to turn your back on him as well?"

"We're in the Dominion now. There are mage schools around every corner. This is a better place for him than Skyrim. He's already left."

Gold-Heart felt sick. "So Octavian died for nothing."

Vilyn wouldn't look at him. "Time for work."


	17. Chapter 17

Cryngaine Field lay below, drowned in blood and bodies. On the horizon, the gold and silver sails of the Redguard fleet danced on the sea. There were hundreds of them, and each had carried a hundred soldiers over the waters of Iliac Bay. To here. To Betony.

Quintus stared out from a window somewhere in Skyspire Keep, the central fortress of the island. It had been built by the Reman emperors, and the fact showed: It had that antique Imperial look, a mix of Elven, Akaviri and Nordic architecture. It was from the time before the Empire was still trying to find its own cultural identity. The fort's five towers were squared instead of rounded, and very tall. They stretched up into the sky, hundreds of feet high – they were likely the reason the keep had been given the name Skyspire. They were topped by parapets decorated with symbols of the Imperial Dragon and the Ruby Throne. Banners of the Empire, red, gold and black, had been hung from the keep's windows as a final symbol of defiance in the beginning, when they first sieged it, but they were pincushioned with arrows now and half had fallen down or been set alight. The battlements, where the sun-backed figures of Breton archers had rained volley after desperate volley onto them, were now eerily silent.

The battle went well. The Bretons sallied forth from the keep on horseback, clad in silver platemail and backed by their archers on the walls, but the Redguard ranks held firm against the initial charge. Those with polearms and pikes jostled to the front and used them to chop and pull the riders off of their mounts, and once the Breton knights were on the ground, they were no match for the lean and athletic Redguards. So, in the space of an hour, Quintus's army accomplished what King Camoran's couldn't: he drove the Bretons back into their keep. Quintus led his bodyguard forward, shields raised. The shields were oak and limewood, and freshly made: the scent of sap and bark still clung to them. They were square-shaped and concave like the standard-issue Imperial ones. But, instead of bearing the Imperial Eagle on their fronts, they bore the silver sickle of Sentinel, swimming on a yellow sky. He gave the order and they lifted their shields in unison, locking them together in an impenetrable roof. Quintus was pleased: they had picked up the Imperial way of war quickly.

"Forward!" He shouted the order, and it was repeated down the line. And they crawled towards the walls of the Skyspire.

The Breton archers went to their work, but – thanks to the Imperial shields – casualties were minimal. Atah, who had recovered from his wounds, led the other formation of Redguard warriors off to the right. The approach was painfully slow. Quintus found himself remembering that when they had used similar tactics to force Jarl Ulfric out of Windhelm's keep five years ago, the soldiers of the fourth legion had been at least twice as quick. But, again, they had been surrounded by burning buildings and the end to the civil war lay mere metres in front of them, so he expected that had made them move faster.

The walls were right before them now. Quintus gave the order and they broke their formation, crushing up against the keep's walls. "Ladders!" Ayda shouted.

"Hey! I'm in charge here!" He told her, but she just smiled at him with a look that asked: "Are you now?"

The climb always terrified him before, but Ayda jumped straight onto one of the ladders and, not wanting to be outdone, he scrambled up the second. Both of them burst onto the battlements at the same time. And so the slaughter began.

Once inside the keep, the battle went much like it had outside. In the past, when the Redguards had fought as a thousand individuals each seeking personal glory, the discipline of the Bretons had been enough to hold them off, but now they fought as one unit, with the cold and calculated methods of the Imperial way drilled into them and this, combined with their natural ability as warriors, gave them the edge they needed. So a sea of copper and bronze, scimitars and blood had flooded Skyspire and drowned everything in it.

Betony was theirs. But there was one man left.

"Kill me, and end this misery," A voice whimpered behind him.

Quintus turned from the window, his armour _jingl_ing as he did so. King Casmar had commissioned a suit of full scale-mail to be made especially for him, and it rippled and _clink_ed like a thousand freshly-wrought pennies. It marked him as one of the king's most esteemed warriors; he liked it.

The priest was on his knees, his hands tied behind his back with a piece of rope. He was a pitiful man, snivelly, old and balding, and - from the smell of the air around him - he had a weak bladder. Quintus put his blade on the man's shoulder and looked down at him with contempt.

"You've pissed yourself," he said. The priest winced.

"Oh, Divines, save me! Oh, Akatosh, Dibella, Mara, Julianos, Stendarr, Zenithar, Kynareth, Arkay, save me! Oh –" so he repeated, over and over, a dribbling wreck, until Quintus moved his sword. It was a graceful flick, delicate and light, and it took a chunk of the man's beard and a nick out of his earlobe. He yowled and clutched at the clumps of grey hair.

"Shut up. You think the Divines truly care about you?"

"Whatever you do, make it quick, please! I've heard what you brigands do to priests… No torture, I beg of you!"

Quintus took more of his beard off. "We aren't brigands. But you will die fast, I promise you."

The priest looked up at him with terrified curiosity. "W- Who are you, then?"

Quintus fought down a sudden surge of doubt. "We are Redguards."

"Redguards? Pardon me, lord, but you… you don't look like a Redguard."

"I serve Hammerfell. That makes me a Redguard."

"Where were you born, boy?" the priest asked, then recoiled as Quintus hit him with an armoured fist.

"Enough questions!" He pinned the priest with his foot, and raised his sword. And stayed there for a long time. The priest eventually risked opening his eyes.

"You promised to do it quickly!" he accused.

_Remember the words they sent you in here with_, Quintus thought.

"HoonDing doesn't like cowards who hide from battle. Go in there and kill him," Atah had said.

"Prove your loyalty to us – to me, my Imperial warrior," Ayda had agreed.

"Bring out his head and I'll let the king know how gloriously you fought," Atah said.

_But he's unarmed! This isn't the warrior's way. He's a priest, by the gods. A priest of my own gods!_ Not my gods anymore, he thought. Once, but not anymore.

_Can you use that to justify murder?_

He brought the sword down, but hesitated at the last second. The priest whimpered like a beaten dog. He tried again, but his body wouldn't let him do it.

"Skingrad. I was born in Skingrad." He took his foot off the priest and he scrambled away.

"I… I was born in Daggerfall," the priest managed.

"What's your name?"

"…Amaund."

"Amaund. I'm Quintus. What brought you here?"

The priest eyed him anxiously. "The church. The old fort chaplain passed away, and, and they needed a replacement. I was young and eager - It was a long time ago, obviously, and -"

"Do you like the island?" Quintus asked.

He hesitated, sensing a trap. "…It is a nice place. As good as any."

"And have you been good to this island's people? Would you be good to them if they were Redguards?"

The man's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes! Yes, my lord, I would. By my heart, by the Divines – I mean, by Yokuda, I would watch and guide them as if they were my own flock."

Quintus slapped him across the face with the flat of his blade. "Give me an honest answer, not grovelling lies. Do you think I'm a fool?"

"No! No, lord, I –"

"I hope not, and I hope you aren't a fool, either. Because you will have to be cunning to live. You will have to learn all about the Yokudan gods, and preach about them every Sundas in your own chapel, with the Divines watching you. You will have to adopt a Redguard name, and blend in with them. Mingle with them, heal them, help them and pray for them as if they were your own. Do you think you could do that, make that sacrifice, if I were to let you live?"

"But… But lord, how can you expect anyone to forsake their gods? Their identities?"

Quintus shrugged. "I've managed it so far. So, yes or no?"

He dipped his head. "I believe so, lord."

Quintus moved forward with his sword and the priest yelped, until he realised he was only cutting his binds. "Hide under the bed there, and don't move for three days. The majority of the new settlers will have moved ashore by then. Then, make your way down to Betony City, get yourself a copy of the Book of Circles, a new robe, and a Redguard haircut. Learn their words. Sort your beard out. And blend in."

"Yes. Yes, lord, I will. Thank you."

Quintus left the room, and made his way down to the courtyard, stepping over the bodies of knights and castle courtiers as he did. He saw a middle-aged man, face-down in a pool of blood, balding, who from behind looked very similar to the priest. "Sorry," he uttered as he cleaved the man's head off and carried it outside. Its face was a wreck, bloodied and battered to a pulp; they wouldn't notice it wasn't the right man.

When he emerged from the tower, Atah visibly grimaced. "What did you do to him?"

"He made me angry," Quintus said.

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever get on your nerves, then," Ayda smiled. Quintus flung the head on the ground.

"You must return to the ships," Atah said. "I'll sort things out here. Get back to Sentinel, tell the king how it went. And welcome to the flock, Quintus." He opened his arms.

Quintus hugged him, but inside his stomach was reeling.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Author's Gloat:** Are you ready to learn more about Vilyn's past? *evil laugh*_

* * *

><p>A figure moved in the blackness. Then another.<p>

They flitted between patches of undergrowth, swift and quiet to avoid detection. There were at least a dozen guards out tonight. They were elven, the southern elves with bronze skin and a natural affinity for magic, so they had no need for torches. Orbs of light, like tiny stars, followed them on their rounds, summoned by light-casting spells. All elven soldiers learned the most practical spells: lock-cracking, persuasion, dispelling, light-casting, detect life, healing, and simple destruction spells. Not all recruits were up to the challenge; the ones that were less proficient were sent back to Alinor, shamed, to live the civilian life. But all these guards were deadly – well trained, magically powerful, and drilled in the martial arts of the blade. Capture would equal death. But the figures were skilled. They weaved between the plants quieter than a whisper, and the most any of the elves saw was the rustle of leaves as they passed, which was lost amongst the rippling of the leaves in the wind. And they were aiming for one particular orb.

Vilyn was on watch that night, too. As a Telvanni, he was more than capable of competing with the other guards in sheer magical prowess, but they still scoffed at him and called him 'ash-blood' and 'hedge wizard.' _S'wits and N'wah, all of them!_ He thought. _It's almost not worth the prize_. But he knew as soon as he thought it that it wasn't true. Because Justiciar Nelacar, dark-hearted he may be, knew how to tempt. Oh, did he.

The promise of aid rebuilding his old House was too much to pass up, as much as he hated going against the others. The look in Gold-Heart's eyes as he realised was still fresh in his mind, though it had been hours ago now. _Why do I care?_ He thought. _Just another filthy, back-stabbing Argonian - less valuable than that foetid marsh they call home._ But he still felt… dirty for doing it. He shook his head. "Remember father's words," He muttered into the dark, and patted the hilt of his dagger.

_You kill that lizard, boy, and rebuild our House. I don't care how you do it, how many people you have to cheat, or deceive, or murder to get there, just do it. Make your ancestors proud. And me._

The dagger whispered as he drew it from its sheath. He appreciated the way it glimmered and shifted in the dark under its own angry, red-orange glow. The red jewels in the hilt glistened like Dunmeri eyes, staring at him with bitter accusation, and they reminded him of that dark night when the glory of Telvanni fell. The last night that he saw his father.

* * *

><p>"The knife. The knife, son!" His father coughed.<p>

They were in his father's quarters at the top of the fungal tower. All great Telvanni mages lived in a fungal tower that they themselves had grown from a tiny spore and shaped into a home through the sheer will of their magicka. Aloth Teldras lay on his bed now, dressed in his very best robes. They were a light tan colour, and accentuated by his shining golden rings, bracelets, buttons, belt-buckle and, finally, a grand and intricately detailed torque that fastened a black cloak around his neck. "Telvanni wizard-lords always put a brave face on things," he'd once said. "It steadies his companions, and makes his servants feel like he knows his stuff. Good clothes help maintain this image."

Though his father wore his very best clothes right now, he was not wearing his brave face. His flesh was pallid. His eyes were wide and afraid, and his mouth was permanently open. He was dribbling. Vilyn could barely make himself meet his father's gaze, because he feared it would bring him to tears. He'd never seen him like this. Beneath those robes, he knew, the wound was festering. The wound caused by the Argonian slave that stuck a pitchfork in his belly, still coated in Guar dung, when he heard of the Argonian Uprising sweeping north towards the Telvanni Isles. Now his father was raving about some knife that he kept in the side drawer as if it was the last thing that mattered on Nirn. _He is truly gone now. Oh, father!_

"Aren't you listening to me? Fetch my bloody knife!"

"Why do you want your knife?"

His wide eyes bulged. "Don't you question me! An insolent boy to the very end, I knew you would be! Always asking _why_. Never mind why – just do it. I have one last favour to ask of you."

"Yes, father." He returned with the knife and placed it in his hand.

"Good, good. Now listen to me, boy, and listen close. The other House-wizards are gathering, yes? To try to stop the slave horde?"

"Yes."

"It won't work. They'll all die. I hadn't the heart to tell them before, but now – well, it doesn't matter now, does it?" he laughed, but it quickly became a cough, a raw, hacking cough that went on for some time. Vilyn waited. "They'll – they'll call you to them, tell you that you have a duty to perform, to me, to your house, to stand by their sides and fight with them. Total guarshit. You owe _them_ nothing, and you owe _me_ nothing. Your only task is to survive. I want you to go the other way."

"I don't understand, father – which other way?"

His father reached out of the bed to slap his head, but he was too far away. "To the other side of the Empire, you fool! Take our family's ship, what's left of our retainers, and sail off to… to… one of those Mannish provinces with the ugly names, I can't remember what they're called. They won't find you there."

"Yes, father –"

"I'm not finished! Not yet." He took a few ragged breaths. "I need you to promise me something, now. Do you promise? Do you, boy?"

"I don't know what I'm promising to do –"

"To do whatever your fathers tells you! Vivec knows you haven't before, but you must this time. You must listen, and you must give me your word."

Vilyn nodded. "I promise."

His father let himself fall back, evidently relieved. His waved his hand, without looking at him. It was a feeble gesture, but the words that rattled out with it reduced his son to tears.

"I want you to kill me."

"No! Father, please, don't ask me to do that. Anything else, but please, no…" He began to cry.

His father's face hardened, but then he seemed to realise just how much he was asking of him, and just how young Vilyn was, and closed his eyes.

"I need you to, Vilyn. Because I'm not finished with the Argonians yet."

"I don't understand," Vilyn sobbed. Then he saw that his father was holding something in his other hand - the hand that he'd been concealing under the bedsheets. A soul gem.

"An Argonian guar-herder is forcing me to leave this world, but I'm going to take a damn large number of his kin with me before I go. And him, as well. _Him_ especially." He pushed the soul gem and knife into Vilyn's hands.

Vilyn shook his head feverishly, refusing to take them. "No!"

Aloth shoved them at him. "Yes! You promised, boy. You promised to do whatever I asked. I want you to fill this dagger with my soul, and plunge it into the heart of that n'wah lizard that killed me." Vilyn went as cold as ice. "You promised," his father urged. Eventually Vilyn nodded. Without a sound, he took them in his hands. His father smiled with pity, and with something else Vilyn had never seen there before – respect.

"You kill that lizard, boy, and rebuild our House. I don't care how you do it, how many people you have to cheat, or deceive, or murder to get there. Just do it. Make your ancestors proud. And me."

Vilyn plunged the dagger into his heart. A flutter of a smile appeared on his father's lips, before the life essence floated out of him. It lingered on the air for a moment before being sucked into the soul gem with a glittery sound and a small purple spark. Vilyn went to his father's enchanting table and muttered his promise:

"I vow to avenge my House, my ancestors, and my father. I vow to take a ship to High Rock, and to stay there until I am old enough to enact his wishes. I then vow to return here and hunt down the Argonian that killed my father… and I vow that, no matter how many people I must cheat, or deceive, or murder, that I will fulfil my promise."

The dagger shimmered and glowed with heat as if fresh from the forge, and at first he was afraid to touch it, but he found that it was cool to his touch. He sheathed it, and left Morrowind that night. As House Telvanni died.

* * *

><p>Vilyn touched his cheek and found that he was crying. "I'm sorry, father," he choked. "I'm sorry. I can't find the Argonian. I have searched, gods know I have searched, but I just <em>can't find him<em>."

"What Argonian? Are you looking for me?" A voice asked from the darkness.

Vilyn whipped around and aimed his dagger at the dark by instinct. _Gold-Heart._ Though it seemed impossible, somehow he knew it was him.

Sure enough, Gold-Heart stepped into the glow of Vilyn's floating orb. But another stepped up beside him. A khajiit, lean and muscular, with piercings dangling from its ears and nose, and a thick mane that was fashioned into braids and beads. Both had menacing looks about them.

"What are you doing?" Vilyn asked. He adjusted his grip on his dagger. "You aren't supposed to be out here."

Gold-Heart cocked his head with an air of smugness. "Oh, I just thought I'd drop by to say farewell before I break out of here." He smiled at Vilyn's reaction. "Yes, I broke out."

"How?" Vilyn asked. "I made sure you had no lockpicks. I made damn sure!"

The khajiit, whose arms had been folded, revealed one long, untrimmed claw-nail. "I use it to pick locks," he explained.

"I told you, I can break out of anywhere," Gold-Heart said.

"Very impressive. So, what? You and your friend here came to gloat?" Vilyn said.

"Not quite," Gold-Heart said as he and the khajiit stepped forward.

Vilyn jabbed his dagger at them warningly. "One inch closer and I'll raise the alarm and gut you both. You see if I don't."

Gold-Heart was still smiling. "So, what were you crying about?"

"I wasn't crying," Vilyn said instantly.

Gold-Heart waved his hand. "Just like a Dunmer. Even when faced with damning evidence, they deny the truth," he said. "Dishonourable and dishonest. What a combination."

"Shut your snout, lizard," Vilyn said, "before I muzzle it. Your people have no right to call my people –"

"I think a thousand years of slavery is more than good enough! But I don't let myself get distracted by racial bickerings."

"Then why are you here?"

Gold-Heart cackled. "You really don't know, do you? Because you _betrayed_ me. And Octavian. I don't care an Imp's arse about race, or government, or law, but when someone betrays me, or a friend of mine, that's when I get angry."

The khajiit and Argonian advanced at the same time, and Vilyn backed off, about to call for help, when he saw two orbs bobbing erratically in their direction. Seconds later, he heard the shouts.

"_Alarm! Alarm! Slave breakout!_"

Their heads snapped in the direction of the sound, and Vilyn began to smile. Until: "_The dark elf is with them! I always knew he was a traitor! Grab him too!_"

The three of them glanced at each other. "We'll continue this later," Gold-Heart hissed, and together they burst straight for the cover of the nearest trees.


End file.
